Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.
The Bitter Herb
O
I search for you in vain;
You are the only growing thing
Can take away my pain.
Grew wild on every hill;
I should have plucked a store of it,
And kept it by me still.
Where once I wandered free,
But the rare herb, Forgetfulness,
It hides away from me.
Where is your drowsy breath?
Oh, can it be your seed has blown
Far as the Vales of Death?