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!