Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Forget me not

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Forget-Me-Not.
To flourish in my favourite bower,
 To blossom round my cot,
I cultivate the little flower
 They call Forget-me-Not.

It springs where Avon gently flows
 In wild simplicity;
And 'neath my cottage-window grows,
 Sacred to love and thee.

This pretty little floweret's dye
 Of soft cerulean blue,
Appears as if from Ellen's eye
 It had received its hue.

Though oceans now betwixt us roar,
 Though distant be our lot,
Ellen! though we should meet no more,
 Sweet maid, Forget-me-Not.

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