Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,
Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,
Thy face is like an angel's fair,
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Tender curves of cheek and lips--
Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse--
Pale robes flowing to thy feet--
Folded hands that lightly meet,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Sleep'st thou still?--the world awakes,--
Still the echo swells and breaks,--
Over field, and wood, and street
Easter anthems throb and beat,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Christ the Lord is risen again,--
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,--
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
In the grave from whence He rose,
Lay thee to thy long repose,--
Sweet with myrrh and spices,--sweet
With the footprints of His feet,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Where His sacred head hath lain,
Thine may rest, secure from pain.
While the circling years go round,
Without motion,--without sound,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!