I recently read a poem for Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin called "The Flower" and thought of sharing it with u:
A flower withered, without scent,
Forgotten in a book I see,
And all at once a curious vision
Fills my soul:
Where did it bloom and when? Was it during
And for how long did it bloom? And picked by
By foreign or familiar hands?
And laid in here for what?
In remembrance of a tender meeting,
Or a fateful seperation,
Or a solitary stroll
In a silent field, or in a shady forest?
And still alive is he, and still alive is she?
And now where is their small corner?
Or already are they withered,
Like this unknonw flower?
here's a link where r some more of his poems:
hope u like it!!