The Flower

The dried flower, now bereft of scent,
I found forgotten in a book;
And straight away my heart
Was flooded with strange musings.
Where had it bloomed,
When? Which springtime gave it birth?
Did it bloom long? By whose hand
Was it gathered? Why placed just here?
Remembrance of a tender meeting,
Or of a fateful parting,
A solitary ramble
Through silent fields or bosky woods?
And lives he yet? And what of her, his love?
Where is today their placid home?
Or has their love already faded
Like this now-unremembered flower?