Marguerite

Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,     Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,     Thy face is like an angel's fair,         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     Tender curves of cheek and lips--     Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse--     Pale robes flowing to thy feet--     Folded hands that lightly meet,--         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     Sleep'st thou still?--the world awakes,--     Still the echo swells and breaks,--     Over field, and wood, and street     Easter anthems throb and beat,--         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     Christ the Lord is risen again,--     Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,--     Have those gentle lips no breath,     Smiling in the trance of death?--         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     In the grave from whence He rose,     Lay thee to thy long repose,--     Sweet with myrrh and spices,--sweet     With the footprints of His feet,--         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!     Where His sacred head hath lain,     Thine may rest, secure from pain.     While the circling years go round,     Without motion,--without sound,--         Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!