It was about the time of day
When all the lawns with dew are wet;
I wandered down a steep wood-way,
And there I met with Margaret—
Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met:
I could not find a word to say,
And she was silent too—and yet
For hand and lips I dared to pray—
And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay,
Her eyes are like the violet;
Will time take this joy, too, away,
And ever teach me to forget—
And to forget without regret—
The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?