the forget-me-not

The Forget-me-not.

Once upon a soft spring day, so long ago that the time, tho' not the place, has long, long been forgot,
a young knight and his tender bride lingered in a favour'd spot
where a silver stream wandered deep and cool.
They sat and saw where chimney-smoke like solemn incense rose from the miller's whitewashed cot,
and where trout in the stream darted and poised in a dark glitter,
pebbles upon which slow crayfish crawled,
and mayflies twirled about above.

And he and she spoke of love as lovers do, so still they sat that doves fluttered near to peck in the grass,
their cooing sweeter than any flute.
And she in play must her white feet in the water splash,
Oh she tells him how swift and cold the water, and as she steps back to the bank he marvels at how quickly is gone all trace of her from the chill stream's face.
And now she gathers flowers, soon a posy vari-coloured like a rainbow in her hand
except few blooms of blue she spies where she can easy reach
but some tiny petals, sweet'st of hue, like the very spring sky are spread along the other bank,
so in his love her knight must go across, she laughs to see him shed his shoes and doublet,
laughs again to see his sudden shiver as be steps into the stream's swift chill,
and chill more he, she, feels as a cloud passes over the sun - she cries to him
Take care, he says do not fear, I fare well here.
He scampers, dripping as the flowers he quickly picks,
to her he calls what are these flowers called?
She tells him she knows not, and to haste to her now.
His hands are full of blue like that sky plucked down.
He wades to return, and, why none will ever know, his step falters and
  in a quick dark moment he falls and the waters at once have him in thrall -
He is swept about and away, his bouquet for her spreads and whirls about his fair head,
at her shrill scream the echoes start, he is gone. is seen again - and gone
 
  The weir and mill-race half a mile below beckon into their grim deeps
  Through her fear she marvels at how quickly is gone all trace of him from the chill stream's face

What he called to her as away he fell, none can ever tell
except that later that same day as the miller and his stout sons pulled that poor knight's body from their pond and her tears mix't with the millstream's drops on his pale face
she saw how some blue flowers in a last garland his hair had wreathed,
all that was left of his sad bouquet to her, she thinks
 
  she thinks she hears him cry
  as she does whenever in memory she passes by that same place where the trout still fleet and race
  in his farewell to her the name now given to those skyblue flowers which then a name had not:
       " ...forget-me-not"