The Little Memories

By Nora May French

My thoughts of you  .  .  . although I strain and sigh
            At stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face,
No plants in all my garden grow so high,
  Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place.

It pleases me, and wakes an old delight,
  To go with wordy shears in idle times,
And trim them as a patient gardener might,
  Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes.

If these were all, opposing strength with strength
  To make my hurt an easier thing to bear;
If these alone usurped my garden"s length,
  It would not be so hard—I should not care.

But close against the ground, oh, small and weak!
  The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow.
Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek.  .  .  .
  Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so.