Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

The Bitter Herb

O BITTER herb, Forgetfulness,

I search for you in vain;

You are the only growing thing

Can take away my pain.

When I was young, this bitter herb

Grew wild on every hill;

I should have plucked a store of it,

And kept it by me still.

I hunt through all the meadows

Where once I wandered free,

But the rare herb, Forgetfulness,

It hides away from me.

O bitter herb, Forgetfulness,

Where is your drowsy breath?

Oh, can it be your seed has blown

Far as the Vales of Death?