She was a child of gentlest air,
Of deep-dark eyes, but golden hair,
And, ah! I loved her unaware,
Marguerite!
She spelled me with those midnight eyes,
The sweetness of her naïve replies,
And all her innocent sorceries,
Marguerite!
The fever of my soul grew calm
Beneath her smile that healed like balm,
Her words were holier than a psalm,
Marguerite!
But 'twixt us yawned a gulf of fate,
Whose blackness I beheld,--too late.
O Christ! that love should smite like hate.
Marguerite!
She did not wither to the tomb,
But round her crept a tender gloom
More touching than her earliest bloom,
Marguerite!
The sun of one fair hope had set,
A hope she dared not all forget,
Its twilight glory kissed her yet,--
Marguerite!
And ever in the twilight fair
Moves with deep eyes and golden hair
The child who loved me unaware!
Marguerite!
