Margaret
II.
Twelve long months the year swung round,
All its little buds unbound
Sleeping in the meadow-ground,
AH its pretty blossoms found
Sweetly fresh and true.
Bright was the bloom on hill and dale,
But Margaret's lovely bloom was pale,
And 'neath her eyelid's drooping veil
Were clouds upon the blue.
All its little buds unbound
Sleeping in the meadow-ground,
AH its pretty blossoms found
Sweetly fresh and true.
Bright was the bloom on hill and dale,
But Margaret's lovely bloom was pale,
And 'neath her eyelid's drooping veil
Were clouds upon the blue.
A secret thorn within the breast
Closer to her heart she prest;
And moods of longing and unrest
Drew to the fields all newly drest
Her half-reluctant feet.
But oh, the soul of all was slain!
And hers was pain's exceeding pain,—
To see the outer charm remain,
And mock what once was sweet.
Closer to her heart she prest;
And moods of longing and unrest
Drew to the fields all newly drest
Her half-reluctant feet.
But oh, the soul of all was slain!
And hers was pain's exceeding pain,—
To see the outer charm remain,
And mock what once was sweet.
The grain was rippling broad and free,
Singing there was on every tree,
Perfumes there were on every lea,
And life was warm and brave, but she
Felt like a wayside stone.
The joy of birds, the brook that purled,
The tender balm the year unfurled,
All the song and breath of the world
Left her the more alone.
Singing there was on every tree,
Perfumes there were on every lea,
And life was warm and brave, but she
Felt like a wayside stone.
The joy of birds, the brook that purled,
The tender balm the year unfurled,
All the song and breath of the world
Left her the more alone.
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