AY, I saw her, we have met,—
Married eyes how sweet they be,—
Are you happier, Margaret,
Than you might have been with me?
Silence! make no more ado!
Did she think I should forget?
Matters nothing, though I knew,
Margaret, Margaret.
Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,
Told a certain thing to mine;
What they told me I put by,
O, so careless of the sign.
Such an easy thing to take,
And I did not want it then;
Fool! I wish my heart would break,
Scorn is hard on hearts of men.
Scorn of self is bitter work,—
Each of us has felt it now:
Bluest skies she counted mirk,
Self-betrayed of eyes and brow;
As for me, I went my way,
And a better man drew nigh,
Fain to earn, with long essay,
What the winner's hand threw by.
Matters not in deserts old,
What was born, and waxed, and yearned,
Year to year its meaning told,
I am come,—its deeps are learned,—
Come, but there is naught to say,—
Married eyes with mine have met.
Silence! O, I had my day,
Margaret, Margaret.
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