The sweet flower, “forget-me-not?”
It lay as if carved on a grave-stone,
And all of its sweetness forgot.
I held the curl up to the lamplight,
And watching the gleam of its gold,
There I heard with the rush of the midnight,
A sad little story it told;
But I promised the sacred old volume
Its secret I would not unfold.
But I would that the world knew its sorrow,