And all but love to the winds was flung,
He thought of the way she used to wear
Her wayward tresses of golden hair.
He thought of the way she used to blush.
He thought of the way he used to gush.
And a smile and a tear went creeping down
The face that so long had known a frown.
And this is what the editor wrote:
No poem—merely a little note,
Simple and manly, but tender, too;