Of a book Time had fingered before,

And whose leaves held the odor of ages,

And the imprints of much usage wore,

A little brown curl I discovered,

That fell from the book to the floor.

Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon.

Did a lover’s sad tear the page spot?

Who pressed there that gem of the garden—

The sweet flower, “forget-me-not?”

It lay as if carved on a grave-stone,

And all of its sweetness forgot.

I held the curl up to the lamplight,

And watching the gleam of its gold,

There I heard with the rush of the midnight,

A sad little story it told;

But I promised the sacred old volume

Its secret I would not unfold.

But I would that the world knew its sorrow,

The story I must not reveal;

But go to your book case to-morrow.

And each to your own heart appeal;

And you’ll know why the tattered old volume

The little curl tries to conceal.