Forget-Me-Not

Between Fear and Mirth sat Falsehood and Truth, Who made away in a kissing-booth. They snagged each-other in prickl'd vine, Lit the scene in wax and wine. As evening faded clear to dawn, In her heart kind Truth true mourn'd. For Falsehood thieved this memory-hers, He stuff'd her head with larkspurs. 'This kind of thing I'm doing, I'm sure, I'm sure it has been done before... In this heart, this kind of heart, I'm sure Lies a memory of this thing in mind, Though I forget, in mind, I'm sure, That the thing I forget is good and kind. This I know, Yea, I spoke and heard, That you who is kind remember these words. This I know, I know Falsehood reclined, In comfort and lux, with Truth beside. This kind of thing I do, I know, Was done again an era ago.'