Love’S Garden

IN my heart’s garden, winter dark and bare, Love sought for flowers to make a wreath for thee, Which, since the sun was gone, he scarce might see In all the waste, and Time was gardener there, Who yet a little bloom will hardly spare, But with remorseless hand still prunes away, And still his scythe he sharpeneth every day; So Love was left with empty hands to fare.

Till Hope had led him to a little well That in this desert kept a joyful spot, Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew, As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew, That soon into his reaping fingers fell Which bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.