XXII

How I waste language—yet in truth

You must blame love, whose early rage

Made me a rhymster in my youth,

And over-garrulous in age.

Sing me that other song I made,

Half-angered with my happy lot,

When in the breezy limewood-shade,

I found the blue forget-me-not.

SONG.

All yesternight you met me not.

My ladylove, forget me not.

When I am gone, regret me not,

But, here or there, forget me not.

With your arched eyebrow threat me not,

And tremulous eyes, like April skies,

That seem to say, 'forget me not.'

I pray you, love, forget me not.

In idle sorrow set me not;

Regret me not: forget me not:

Oh! leave me not; oh, let me not

Wear quite away;—forget me not.

With roguish laughter fret me not

From dewy eyes, like April skies,

That ever look, 'forget me not,'

Blue as the blue forget-me-not.