Poems by George P. Morris | ||
143
MARGARETTA.
When I was in my teens,
I loved dear Margaretta:
I know not what it means,
I can not now forget her!
That vision of the past
My head is ever crazing;
Yet, when I saw her last,
I could not speak for gazing!
Oh, lingering bud of May!
Dear as when first I met her;
Worn in my heart alway,
Life-cherished Margaretta!
I loved dear Margaretta:
I know not what it means,
I can not now forget her!
That vision of the past
My head is ever crazing;
Yet, when I saw her last,
I could not speak for gazing!
Oh, lingering bud of May!
Dear as when first I met her;
Worn in my heart alway,
Life-cherished Margaretta!
We parted near the stile,
As morn was faintly breaking:
For many a weary mile
Oh how my heart was aching!
But distance, time, and change,
Have lost me Margaretta;
And yet 't is sadly strange
That I can not forget her!
O queen of rural maids—
My dark-eyed Margaretta—
The heart the mind upbraids
That struggles to forget her!
As morn was faintly breaking:
For many a weary mile
Oh how my heart was aching!
But distance, time, and change,
Have lost me Margaretta;
And yet 't is sadly strange
That I can not forget her!
144
My dark-eyed Margaretta—
The heart the mind upbraids
That struggles to forget her!
My love, I know, will seem
A wayward, boyish folly;
But, ah! it was a dream
Most sweet—most melancholy.
Were mine the world's domain,
To me 't were fortune better
To be a boy again,
And dream of Margaretta.
Oh! memory of the past,
Why linger to regret her?
My first love was my last!
And that is Margaretta!
A wayward, boyish folly;
But, ah! it was a dream
Most sweet—most melancholy.
Were mine the world's domain,
To me 't were fortune better
To be a boy again,
And dream of Margaretta.
Oh! memory of the past,
Why linger to regret her?
My first love was my last!
And that is Margaretta!
Poems by George P. Morris | ||