O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
⁠Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
⁠Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckooflower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the eveninglighted wood,
⁠From all things outward you have won
A tearful grace, as tho’ you stood
⁠Between the rainbow and the sun.