To Marguerite.
Where is my friend? I languish here—
Where is my own sweet friend?
With all those looks of love so dear,
Where grace and beauty blend!
I miss those social winter hours
With her I used to spend,
Now cheerless are my summer bowers—
Where is my own lov'd friend?
Our sweetest joys, like flowers may rise,
And all their fragrance lend,
Yet my sick heart within me dies—
Where is my own sweet friend?
The winding brooks, like distant lute,
Their murmuring whispers send;
The echoes of my soul are mute—
Where is my own dear friend?
M.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
← Back to The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35