THE FORGOTTEN ONE.
311
A beautiful and greenwood bower
The spreading branches made.
The raindrops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain—but where art thou?
But I forget how many showers
Have wash'd this old oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee:
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.
I talk of friends who once have wept,
As if they still should weep;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep;
