Poetry Archives

727

Precious to Me—She still shall be—
Though She forget the name I bear—
The fashion of the Gown I wear—
The very Color of My Hair—

So like the Meadows—now—
I dared to show a Tress of Theirs
If haply—She might not despise
A Buttercup’s Array—

I know the Whole—obscures the Part—
The fraction—that appeased the Heart
Till Number’s Empery—
Remembered—as the Millner’s flower

When Summer’s Everlasting Dower—
Confronts the dazzled Bee.