He was so small, so very small,
That since she ceased to care,
'T was easy just to pass him by,
Forgetting he was there;
But though too slight a thing he seemed
Of interest to be,—
One heart had loved him with a love
As boundless as the sea.
He was so poor, so very poor,
That now, since she had died,
He seemed a tiny threadbare coat
With nothing much inside;
But, ah! a treasure he concealed,
And asked of none relief:
His shabby little bosom hid
A mighty, grown-up grief.