English poem
The Little Memories
by Nora May French (1881–1907)
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.