MARGARET.

Her eyes — upon a summer's day

God's skies are not more blue than they.

Her hair — you've seen a sunbeam bold

Made up of just such threads of gold.

Her cheek — the leaf which nearest grows

The dewy heart of June's red rose.

Her mouth — full lipped, and subtly sweet

As briar drowned in summer heat.

Her heart — December's chill and snow —

Heaven pity me, who love her so!