Oh! her cheek, her cheek was pale,
Her voice was hardly musical;
But your proud grey eyes grew tender,
Child, when mine they met,
With a piteous self-surrender,
                           Margaret.

Child, what have I done to thee?
Child, what hast thou done to me?
How you froze me with your tone
That last day we met!
Your sad eyes then were cold as stone,
                           Margaret.

Oh, it all now seems to me
A far-off weary mystery!
Yet -- and yet her last sad frown
Awes me still, and yet --
In vain I laugh your memory down,
                           Margaret.