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?