Nothing More.

’Twas the old, old story told again, The story we all have heard; A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain— You know it word for word. A stolen picture—a faded rose— An evening hushed and bright; A whisper—perhaps a kiss—who knows? A handclasp, and “goodnight.” The sum of what we call “first love,” That dreamflower rare and white, That puts its magic blossom forth And dies in a single night. 1878.