And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf,
  And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low,
While yet in August glory hung the leaf,
  And flowerless aftermath began to grow;
He came from his gray turrets to the shore,
And sought the maid beneath the sycamore.

He sought her, not because her tender eyes
  Would brighten at his coming, for he knew
Full seldom any thought of him would rise
  In her fair breast when he had passed from view;
But for his own love’s sake, that unbeguiled
Drew him in spirit to the silent child.

For boyhood in its better hour is prone
  To reverence what it hath not understood;
And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone
  From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good: 
While a great peacefulness of shade was shed
Like oil of consecration on her head.

A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung,
  With bounding foot he reached the mossy place,
A little moment gently o’er her hung,
  Put back her hair and looked upon her face,
Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet,
He “Margaret!” low murmured, “Margaret!

“Look at me once before I leave the land,
  For I am going,—­going, Margaret.” 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand,
  Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes,
And moved it back from her in troubled wise,

Because he came between her and her fate,
  The Mere.  She sighed again as one oppressed;
The waters, shining clear, with delicate
  Reflections wavered on her blameless breast;
And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair,
And played upon her hands and on her hair.

And he, withdrawn a little space to see,
  Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain,
“Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me,
  Maid Margaret;” and there came by again
A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway
Of waters:  then he turned and went his way.

And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? 
  No; thou wilt gaze:  though thy young eyes grow dim,
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan,
  Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him;
There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee—­No
beauty in his fresh heart’s gayety.

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? 
  Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? 
The yellow iris on the margin flaunts,
  With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring,
And under dappled clouds the lark afloat
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat.

But Margaret—­ah! thou art there no more,
  And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone
Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore,
  With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown;
Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear
Drinks in no more the music of the Mere.

The boy shall come—­shall come again in spring,
  Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share,
And some kind offering in his hand will bring
  To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair—­
Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest,
Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast.