1878.
Nothing More.
’Twas the old, old story told again,
The story we all have heard;
A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain—
You know it word for word.
A stolen picture—a faded rose—
An evening hushed and bright;
A whisper—perhaps a kiss—who knows?
A handclasp, and “goodnight.”
The sum of what we call “first love,”
That dreamflower rare and white,
That puts its magic blossom forth
And dies in a single night.
1878.