Forget-me-not, so small, so blue, so dear,
Thou speak’st a truth the boldest cannot hear.
No trumpet sounds thy name, nor crowd’s acclaim,
Yet lovers carve thee in the heart’s own frame.
Thy bloom is vow, thy leaf a quiet prayer,
A hope that memory might linger there.
O sweetest plea in all the garden writ:
“Forget me not, though time and fate commit.”

Sweet Crocus, herald of the thawing skies,
Thou lift’st thy cup to greet the sun’s surprise.
Ere other blooms have dared to break the snow,
Thy golden horn proclaims the melt below.
A trump of hope, thou blow’st a gentle cheer,
To rouse the sleeping grass and draw the deer.
Though small thy stem, thy courage is not so —
Thou art the spark from which the spring doth grow.

Thou coral blossom, flower of ocean's floor,
Thy petals pulse where sun may touch no more.
A ruby lantern in the siren's keep,
Where Neptune's treasures lie in endless sleep.
Art thou not proof that beauty knows no bound?
That ‘neath the waves fair Eden may be found?
Though land-born flowers bask in open day,
Thou burn’st unseen, and bloom’st thy secret way.

Thou lowly daisy, peerless in thy place,
Though thou dost wear no pride upon thy face.
The child doth pluck thee with a laughter light,
The shepherd lays thee ‘gainst his flute at night.
Yet though unpraised, thy soul doth sweetly shine,
As stars in skies where none may draw a line.
Let others bloom in palaces and wine,
Thy joy is born of earth — and so is mine.

White lily, vestal of the garden fair,
Thou walk’st with virtue in the morning air.
No hue of sin doth mar thy gentle face,
Thou art the emblem of a saintly grace.
The moon doth envy thee, so pale, so still,
Thy form unbent by passion, want, or will.
Yet who, in gazing, feels not longing rise?
For purity doth oft bewitch the wise.

When May doth mount her throne with blossoms crowned,
And strews her bounty o'er the greening ground,
The rose, her fav'rite, blooms with queenly pride,
Her crimson cloak by dewy tears belied.
She sings to bees, and woos the bashful light,
A flame of passion clothed in ****** white.
O Rose of May, thou art the heart's delight,
A thorned joy, both tender and contrite.

O tender bud, in cradle green conceal’d,
Thy blush yet sleeps, thy velvet lips are seal’d;
The wanton breeze doth kiss thy leaves in vain,
For thou, sweet maid, dost hide thy fragrant pain.
What secrets lie within thy folded grace?
What summer's sigh yet lingers on thy face?
O bloom not swift — the morn hath just begun,
And love would wait thee, 'neath the patient sun.