Winds in Pines

By George Sterling

Once forget-me-nots grew here,
    Where the grass and pines are met.
Is she distant now or near?—
    She I was not to forget.

Come the flowers, go the flowers:
    Memories come and will not go.
In the summer that was ours,
    How were she and I to know?

In the forest sang the bird;
    On the grass the dews were clear.
All unsaid our lacking word,
    All unwept the needful tear.

As of old the pine trees sigh,
    Music of an old regret,
Can she hear my heart reply?—
    She that I cannot forget.

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