Margaret.
275
But cold as pride, and stern as death,
Defiant in its strong despair.
Even was darkening down the day,
And soft the vesper call came, blown,
Under the arched oaks, vast and gray;
We trod the chapel path alone.
I faced her on the narrow way.
Defiant in its strong despair.
Even was darkening down the day,
And soft the vesper call came, blown,
Under the arched oaks, vast and gray;
We trod the chapel path alone.
I faced her on the narrow way.
How to my lips my spirit leaped,
Ask not—it was so long ago!
If burning heart and brain have kept
True record of that time, or no,
I will not question. Tears of rage
And grief once marred the crowded page;
And hourly to my weary soul,
Did my sick heart recite it over.
'Twould move me little now—a faded scroll
Writ by pale hands that paler marbles cover.
Ask not—it was so long ago!
If burning heart and brain have kept
True record of that time, or no,
I will not question. Tears of rage
And grief once marred the crowded page;
And hourly to my weary soul,
Did my sick heart recite it over.
'Twould move me little now—a faded scroll
Writ by pale hands that paler marbles cover.
If Margaret met me now at morn
In paths where once we wandered free,
Her dark eyes, lit at sight of me,
Scarce held in leash their eager scorn.
In paths where once we wandered free,
Her dark eyes, lit at sight of me,
Scarce held in leash their eager scorn.
