BEST-LOVED
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.
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