"My Margaret, would that I could be
The breeze which softly kisses thee;
Or else those sunbeams, warm and bright,
Which crown thy head with golden light."
"The breeze," she answered, "dies away.
And sunbeams fade with close of day."
"Then if I were those flowers fair
Which thou, dear girl, art carrying there,
To wear perchance upon thy breast--
Oh, happy flowers, so loved, so blest!"
"The flowers fair must fade," said she;
"Then I shall cast them off from me!"
"Well, let me then thy true love be,
Winning thine every thought for me;
I'll envy not the breeze or flower,
Nor e'en the sunshine's golden dower."
"Ah, love I cannot cast away,
But hold for ever, night and day!"