I

How many things, that we would remember, Sweet or sad, or great or small, Do our minds forget! and how one thing only, One little thing endures o’er all! For many things have I forgotten, But this one thing can never forget-- The scent of a primrose, woodland-wet, Long years ago I found in a far land; A fragile flower that April set, Rainy pink, in her forehead’s garland.