I
How many things, that we would remember,
Sweet or sad, or great or small,
Do our minds forget! and how one thing only,
One little thing endures o’er all!
For many things have I forgotten,
But this one thing can never forget—
The scent of a primrose, woodland-wet,
Long years ago I found in a far land;
A fragile flower that April set,
Rainy pink, in her forehead’s garland.
II
How many things by the heart are forgotten!
Sad or sweet, or little or great!
And how one thing that could mean nothing
Stays knocking still at the heart’s red gate!
For many things has my heart forgotten,
But this one thing can never forget—
The face of a girl, a moment met,
Who smiled in my eyes; whom I passed in pity;
A flower-like face, with weeping wet,
Flung to the streets of a mighty city.