The Weed.

My mother told me this for true

That there behind the mountains,

That wear the mists about their feet

And clouds about their summits,

There grows the weed Forgetfulness,

It grows there in the gullies.

If I but knew the way thereto,

Three days long would I wander

And pick a handful of the weed

And drink it steeped in honey,

That so I might forget your mouth

A thousand times that kissed me.