Margaret

Here, in the north, the golden-rod
Covers each hill-side, Margaret;
I love it; but my dreams still set
Toward the rare garden which we trod.

Together on that long June night.
There blew the jasmine sweet; there sang
The mocking-bird; there plaintively rang
(As faded from the world day's light)

The whip-poor-will's half-human cry.
Would I could see once more that home!
Would I could clasp — no more to roam —
Thy fair hands, Margaret! As fly

The birds of summer south, so wing
My thoughts their flight toward thee. Though land
And sea I cross, thou hold'st a wand
Which to thy side my spirit can bring.
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