Her little face is white with woe,
Her downcast eyes are wet;
She had not meant to grieve him so,
At least, — at least, — not yet;
It was so pleasant to be wooed,
So hateful to be won, —
Ah! why should many a merry mood
End in so drear a one!
She draws the curtain back, and peers
Into the world beyond;
The garden gleams in flowery tiers,
The fish leap in the pond;
Behind there is a misty hill, —
How grey it all has grown!
Perhaps it was her father's will,
Perhaps it is her own.
He turns aside, — he pleads no more,
But goes with drooping head;
A man is often wounded sore,
Who dons a coat of red.
And so he sadly rides away,
Slowly o'er hill and plain;
But, let us hope, some other day
He will ride back again!
