COULD every blossom find a voice And sing a strain to me, I know where I would place my choice, Which my delight should be. I would not choose the lily tall, The rose from musky grot, But I would still my minstrel call The blue Forget-me-not.
And I on mossy bank would lie, Of brooklet, rippling clear; And she of the sweet, azure eye, Close at my listening ear, Should sing into my soul a strain Might never be forgot, So rich with joy, so rich with pain-- The blue Forget-me-not.
Ah! every blossom hath a tale, With silent grace to tell, From rose that reddens to the gale To modest heather-bell; But oh! the flower in every heart That finds a sacred spot To bloom, with azure leaves apart, Is the Forget-me-not.
Love plucks it from the mosses green When parting hours are high, And places it Love's palms between With many an ardent sigh; And bluely up from grassy graves In some loved churchyard spot It glances tenderly and waves-- The dear Forget-me-not.