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.'
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