Nothing More

�Twas the old, old story told again,
The story we all have heard;
A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain—
You know it word for word.

A stolen picture—a faded rose—
An evening hushed and bright;
A whisper—perhaps a kiss—who knows?
A handclasp, and �goodnight.�

The sum of what we call �first love,�
That dreamflower rare and white,
That puts its magic blossom forth
And dies in a single night.

1878.

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