Sweet Tête-à-tête, stand tall in this harsh clime. Blossom through the worst that is our springtime. Slim, chaste and demure as only you can be, Did you ever think that you would be set free? In your pot, you sat upon the window cill, Of warmth and water always had your fill, Here, rain, wind and snow are who the piper pays. Do you ever hanker after the good old days?