Marguerite
ALL light and love, and golden grace,
One full glad day, one summer day
Goes ever with me on my way,
And to no other yields a place.
Do you remember Marguerite,
Ah! faithful one, I need not ask,
Since to forget is such a task,
My strength fails toiling at it, sweet.
We climbed the path among the hills,
And laughed to see the wild-birds go
All startled, flying to and fro
Afraid of great and unknown ills.
The wind laughed with us, and grew warm
With breath of leaf, and stalk, and flower,
No space of that delicious hour
But held a fresh and subtle charm.
Till, by-and-by, we stood and knew
Ourselves upon the height alone,
For us the blue sky smiled and shone,
The great world only held us two.
So fair, so cold—it could not be!
Thou wert so proud, my Marguerite,
Thou wert so proud, and O, so sweet
I scarce could look at all on thee.
Till in me grew a madness born
Of the wind blowing from the south,
I bent and kissed thee on the mouth,
The ripe, red mouth—the bow of scorn.
No scorn was on it then, my sweet,
But tenderness beyond compare,
Thy white soul laid its secret bare,
Thy love was mine—mine—Marguerite!
I whispered foolish things and fond,
O bliss, for which I vainly yearned!
Not, not for me, the truth I learned,
Thine hand had signed stern duty’s bond.