Sweet primrose pressed between the pages.
A book of verse from bygone ages.
A token kept and treasured then;
but to what purpose, to what end?
A lover’s gift tucked dear away?
A flower picked one idle day?
Who now can say a time, a place,
what yearning heart, a name, a face,
a crumbling flower the only trace?
Perhaps it’s only heaven knows,
the lives that once entwined the rose.