Two poems, two Margarets, tender and tender feelings rendered in verse and rhyme. Enjoy!
Margaret by Edward Burne-Jones
Margaret, a poem
by Laura J. Rittenhouse
When you passed me yesterday,
Deigning not to look that way,
Did you know that I was near,
And with all your coldness, fear
Just to meet my earnest gaze,
Lest some thought Of other days
Should defy you to forget
What we have been, Margaret?
Did your memory like a dream,
Bring before you then a gleam,
Of a farm-house white and small,
Where the brightest sunbeams fall;
Where the woodbine clambers up,
Holding many a dainty cup
Filled with incense sweeter yet,
Than all others, Margaret?
Did you see the roses white,
And the red ones, where one night
‘Neath the solemn light of stars,
Shadows held us in their bars,
And the soft wind floating by,
Heard us vowing – you and I,
That our love’s sun should not set,
While life lasted, Margaret?
Are your hot-house flowers as sweet
As the ones that kissed your feet?
Do your prisoned birds e’er sing
Like the wild ones on the wing?
Will your wealth and station pay
For the true heart cast away?
Does no wild remorse, regret,
Prey upon you, Margaret?
Turn your head away in scorn.
Rich in gold – in heart forlorn;
Mingle with the heartless, gay;
Laugh and jest and ne’er betray
through your mask of calm, cold pride,
How your aching heart is tried;
Yet through all life’s tangled net,
You shall love me, Margaret.
Spring & Fall: to a young child, a poem
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Márgarét, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
I’ve thought of the last line of some poems for years and tried them out, It wouldn’t work because the last line was much too beautiful for the poem.
– Howard Nemerov
Favorite poems are like favorite children. We definitely have them but we never tell as the others would have their feelings hurt.
– Nikki Giovanni