She braided back her beautiful hair
O'er a brow like Italian marble fair.
She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears
Like an eastern army its golden spears.
The lark flew up as she passed along,
And poured from a cloud his sunny song;
And many bright insects were on wing,
Or lay on the blossoms glistening;
And with scarlet poppies around like a bower,
Found the maiden her mystic flower.
Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well;
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.
Now I number the leaves for my lot,
He loves not, he loves me, he loves me not,
He loves me,—yes, thou last leaf, yes,
I'll pluck thee not, for that last sweet guess!
"He loves me," "Yes," a dear voice sighed:—
And her lover stands by Margaret's side.
L. E. L.
