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.