By Nora May French

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.
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.
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.