Margaret
She let the summer bloom drift by,
But on the path her downcast eye
Saw a daisy withering lie,
As it too were fain to die,—
Nay, the flower was dead!
"Would that all dying were as brief,"
She sighed, in weariness of grief,
And slowly sundering leaf from leaf,
The little charm she said.
But on the path her downcast eye
Saw a daisy withering lie,
As it too were fain to die,—
Nay, the flower was dead!
"Would that all dying were as brief,"
She sighed, in weariness of grief,
And slowly sundering leaf from leaf,
The little charm she said.
Alas! alas! the ghostly spell!
Still on he loves me not it fell!
She dropped the flower in dumb farewell;
For some dead joy, she might not tell,
Lay hushed within her heart.
Ah! what can idle fancies do,
When once the door is fastened to,
But fold the wings that lightly flew,
And nevermore depart!
Still on he loves me not it fell!
She dropped the flower in dumb farewell;
For some dead joy, she might not tell,
Lay hushed within her heart.
Ah! what can idle fancies do,
When once the door is fastened to,
But fold the wings that lightly flew,
And nevermore depart!
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