Poems by Hartley Coleridge With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes |
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THE FORGET-ME-NOT. |
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 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
110
THE FORGET-ME-NOT.
There is a little and a pretty flower,
That you may find in many a garden plot;
Yet wild it is, and grows amid the stour
Of public roads, as in close-wattled bower:
Its name in English is, Forget-me-not.
That you may find in many a garden plot;
Yet wild it is, and grows amid the stour
Of public roads, as in close-wattled bower:
Its name in English is, Forget-me-not.
Sweet was the fancy of those antique ages
That put a heart in every stirring leaf,
Writing deep morals upon Nature's pages,
Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages,
To calm our joy and sanctify our grief.
That put a heart in every stirring leaf,
Writing deep morals upon Nature's pages,
Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages,
To calm our joy and sanctify our grief.
And gladly would I know the man or child,
But no!—it surely was a pensive girl
That gave so sweet a name to floweret wild,
A harmless innocent, and unbeguiled,
To whom a flower is precious as a pearl.
But no!—it surely was a pensive girl
That gave so sweet a name to floweret wild,
A harmless innocent, and unbeguiled,
To whom a flower is precious as a pearl.
111
Fain would I know, and yet I can but guess,
How the blue floweret won a name so sweet.
Did some fond mother, bending down to bless
Her sailing son, with last and fond caress,
Give the small plant to guard him through the fleet?
How the blue floweret won a name so sweet.
Did some fond mother, bending down to bless
Her sailing son, with last and fond caress,
Give the small plant to guard him through the fleet?
Did a kind maid, that through her lover all
By which a maid would fain belovèd be,
Leaning against a ruin'd abbey wall,
Make of the flower an am'rous coronal,
That still should breathe and whisper, “Think of me?”
By which a maid would fain belovèd be,
Leaning against a ruin'd abbey wall,
Make of the flower an am'rous coronal,
That still should breathe and whisper, “Think of me?”
But were I good and holy as a saint,
Or hermit dweller in secluded grot,
If e'er the soul in hope and love were faint,
Then, like an antidote to mortal taint,
I'd give the pretty flower Forget-me-not.
Or hermit dweller in secluded grot,
If e'er the soul in hope and love were faint,
Then, like an antidote to mortal taint,
I'd give the pretty flower Forget-me-not.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |