On a bright cloud, whose purple hue has caught
Its lustre from his wings, the boy-god floats—
He whose sway is of smiles, and sighs, and tears,
And yet whose rule is iron; he has lent
A golden arrow from his quiver’s store,
And the youth’s eager hand has on the bark
Carved these so gentle words, “FORGET ME NOT,”—
Murmuring the while one of those tender songs,
Which have their echo in each lover’s heart:
Wave—that wanderest singing by,
Bearing leaves and flowers with thee,
To the lady of my heart
Waft a benison from me.
Wind—that rov’st around the grove,
Kissing every flower nigh,
I’ll send thee on a sweeter search—
Bear my own sweet love my sigh.
Bark—that show’st my graven words,
Thine be yet a happier lot—
May’st thou meet my maiden’s eye,
Bidding her “Forget me not!”
L. E. L.
