A floweret, withered, odorless in a book forgot I find; And already strange reflection cometh into my mind. Bloomed, where? When? In what spring? And how long ago? And plucked by whom? Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? And wherefore left thus here? Was it in memory of a tender meeting? Was it in memory of a fated parting? Was it in memory of a lonely walk? In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods? Lives he still? Lives she still? And where their nook this very day? Or are they too withered like unto this unknown floweret?