You may not remember me, But I shall not forget the thoughts of you; The birds that flit and sing upon the boughs, Bring back to me those mornings bright, When light cascaded, golden bright, Through leaves as green as emerald hue.

And if by chance a voice you hear, A whisper, soft as dawn’s first glow, Know that it holds a question dear: If still you roam the woods below, And if beneath the boughs of oak, You hear again my heart’s sweet token.

• Elizabeth Barrett Browning