 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
I.
A child, with mystic eyes and flowing hair,
I saw her first, 'mid flowers that shared her grace;
Though but a boy, I cried, “How fair a face!”
And, coming nearer, told her she was fair.
She faintly smiled, yet did not say “Forbear!”
But seemed to take a pleasure in my praise.
She led my steps through many a leafy place,
And pointed where shy birds and sweet flowers were.
I saw her first, 'mid flowers that shared her grace;
Though but a boy, I cried, “How fair a face!”
And, coming nearer, told her she was fair.
She faintly smiled, yet did not say “Forbear!”
But seemed to take a pleasure in my praise.
She led my steps through many a leafy place,
And pointed where shy birds and sweet flowers were.
At length we stood upon a brooklet's brink, —
I seem to hear its sources babbling yet, —
She gave me water from her hand to drink,
The while her eyes upon its flow were set.
“Thy name?” I asked; she whispered low, “Regret,”
Then faded, as the sun began to sink.
I seem to hear its sources babbling yet, —
She gave me water from her hand to drink,
The while her eyes upon its flow were set.
“Thy name?” I asked; she whispered low, “Regret,”
Then faded, as the sun began to sink.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |