A Tuft of Meadow-Sweet

A Tuft of withered meadow-sweet,

Just that and nothing more:

And yet what hosts of memories fleet

The dry old fronds restore!

A tuft of withered meadow-sweet,

No gaudy pink or rose;

And yet the dried-up leaves I see,

Long scorned of butterfly and bee,

Are holier, dearer, unto me

Than any flower that blows —

Than any flower that blows, my love,

Than any flower that blows!

For once — ah heaven! how long ago —

You have forgotten quite —

Where over the blue waters' flow

Wild sea-birds' wings shine white,

You picked a tuft of meadow-sweet

(This very tuft I hold):

You plucked the flower and quite forgot

The flower, the scene, the youth, the spot;

You chose to share another's lot,

And share another's gold;

You scorned the flower, but I did not,

And do not, though I'm old!

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.