Poems (Bushnell)/Margaret
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XIX
MARGARET
MARGARET
I.
Through the fields with morning wet,
Gaily wandered Margaret,
Not a shadow darkening yet
Eyes new-filled with violet;
Just a blithesome lass,
Light of heart and light of tread,
Following where the pathway led,
Spinning out its little thread
In the meadow-grass.
Gaily wandered Margaret,
Not a shadow darkening yet
Eyes new-filled with violet;
Just a blithesome lass,
Light of heart and light of tread,
Following where the pathway led,
Spinning out its little thread
In the meadow-grass.
As she lightly tripped along,
Humming to herself a song
From a heart unstung by wrong—
Gossamer fancies free to throng
Through her cloudless breast—
Troops of daisies, left and right,
Answering back her fresh delight,
Closer swung their fringes white
Around their rosy guest.
Humming to herself a song
From a heart unstung by wrong—
Gossamer fancies free to throng
Through her cloudless breast—
Troops of daisies, left and right,
Answering back her fresh delight,
Closer swung their fringes white
Around their rosy guest.
She plucked one idly as she went;
And half for jest, and half intent,
All her simple lore she spent,
Trying what her fortune meant
On its snowy ring;
With the charm each maiden tries,
Ever with a new surprise,
Listening to those soft replies
That the daisies bring.
And half for jest, and half intent,
All her simple lore she spent,
Trying what her fortune meant
On its snowy ring;
With the charm each maiden tries,
Ever with a new surprise,
Listening to those soft replies
That the daisies bring.
First, he loves me, whispered low;
Then, he loves me not, and so
Back and forth, and to and fro,
All around the milk-white row,
The fairy wheel of fate.
Wide the airy leaflets blew,
While her fingers swiftly flew,
Raveling out the slender clew
To her heart's estate.
Then, he loves me not, and so
Back and forth, and to and fro,
All around the milk-white row,
The fairy wheel of fate.
Wide the airy leaflets blew,
While her fingers swiftly flew,
Raveling out the slender clew
To her heart's estate.
Ending thus the little spell,
On he loves me not it fell:
But merry as a marriage-bell
Rang her voice: "Dear flower, pray tell,
Why so cruel art?"
Careless fancies lightly blow,
Spread their wings, and come and go,
When the door stands open so,
In the happy heart.
On he loves me not it fell:
But merry as a marriage-bell
Rang her voice: "Dear flower, pray tell,
Why so cruel art?"
Careless fancies lightly blow,
Spread their wings, and come and go,
When the door stands open so,
In the happy heart.
II.
Twelve long months the year swung round,
All its little buds unbound
Sleeping in the meadow-ground,
AH its pretty blossoms found
Sweetly fresh and true.
Bright was the bloom on hill and dale,
But Margaret's lovely bloom was pale,
And 'neath her eyelid's drooping veil
Were clouds upon the blue.
All its little buds unbound
Sleeping in the meadow-ground,
AH its pretty blossoms found
Sweetly fresh and true.
Bright was the bloom on hill and dale,
But Margaret's lovely bloom was pale,
And 'neath her eyelid's drooping veil
Were clouds upon the blue.
A secret thorn within the breast
Closer to her heart she prest;
And moods of longing and unrest
Drew to the fields all newly drest
Her half-reluctant feet.
But oh, the soul of all was slain!
And hers was pain's exceeding pain,—
To see the outer charm remain,
And mock what once was sweet.
Closer to her heart she prest;
And moods of longing and unrest
Drew to the fields all newly drest
Her half-reluctant feet.
But oh, the soul of all was slain!
And hers was pain's exceeding pain,—
To see the outer charm remain,
And mock what once was sweet.
The grain was rippling broad and free,
Singing there was on every tree,
Perfumes there were on every lea,
And life was warm and brave, but she
Felt like a wayside stone.
The joy of birds, the brook that purled,
The tender balm the year unfurled,
All the song and breath of the world
Left her the more alone.
Singing there was on every tree,
Perfumes there were on every lea,
And life was warm and brave, but she
Felt like a wayside stone.
The joy of birds, the brook that purled,
The tender balm the year unfurled,
All the song and breath of the world
Left her the more alone.
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!