Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!
Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,
Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,
Thy face is like an angel's fair,
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!

Tender curves of cheek and lips-
Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse-
Pale robes flowing to thy feet-
Folded hands that lightly meet,-
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!

Sleep'st thou still?-the world awakes,-
Still the echo swells and breaks,-
Over field, and wood, and street
Easter anthems throb and beat,-
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!

Christ the Lord is risen again,-
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,-
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?-
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!

In the grave from whence He rose,
Lay thee to thy long repose,-
Sweet with myrrh and spices,-sweet
With the footprints of His feet,-
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!

Where His sacred head hath lain,
Thine may rest, secure from pain.
While the circling years go round,
Without motion,-without sound,-
Marguerite,-oh Marguerite!