In every bower, in every mead,
In each sequestered shady spot,
I seek for Anna, dearest maid,
The flower that says, “Forget me not.”
But I the search in vain pursue,
By fountain clear, or mossy grot,
With golden eye, and circle blue,
The flower that says, “Forget me not.”
But though the little vagrant flower,
To find, it may not be my lot,
Still memory shall assert her power,
And whisper soft, “Forget me not.”
Myra
August 9th 1810