A WITHERED FLOWER.
A little withered, waxen flower, That tells its tale of woe,'T was taken from your folded hands, My darling, long ago.
Among the treasures of my past, Enfolding bitter tears,This little token mutely looks Up from the grave of years.
In scentless silence now it gives The dumb unspoken sign,That even through the gates of death Comes from your heart to mine.
And shrouded memories start to life That long have buried lain,Awaking in my heart anew The throbbing pulse of pain.
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