MORNING.

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?