BEST-LOVED
IT was a joy whose stem I did not break—
A little thing I passed with crowded hands,
And gave a backward look for beauty's sake.
A little thing I passed with crowded hands,
And gave a backward look for beauty's sake.
Of all I pulled and wove and flung aside,
Was any hue preferred above the rest?
I only know they pleased me well, and died.
Was any hue preferred above the rest?
I only know they pleased me well, and died.
But this—it lives distinct in Memory's sight,
A little thing, incurving like a pearl.
I think its heart had never seen the light.
A little thing, incurving like a pearl.
I think its heart had never seen the light.
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