The Flower Of Sorrow

If my sorrow wert a flower
Growing upon a swinging bough,
I wonder would I pluck it? Oh, I wonder!
Yet, what more is sorrow? Behold,
A bloom is naught save the gracing of an hour,
And plucked-decays, yet out from a thousand
Throats have poured a record of its sweetness.
Secure in a thousand shadows stands record
Of its being. Even it hath become a part
Of every man's soul that hath passed.
What more is sorrow? but the withered blossom of
My hope, decayed, ashen brown,
A little whit of smouldering dust,
Aloes to me; to thee a haunting scent,
Which brings a thousand recollections, mayhap.