Classic Poem

Sick in bed lies Margaret,
(Would that it were I),
All her castled world o'erset:
Does she weep and sigh?

She is brave as she is fair,
Fought has she and won:
All her soul is driven bare
For the lovely sun.

Here she lies, and with her smile
Teaches, rules, us all;
Thin white hands with gentle guile
Hold our love in thrall.

I should love her were she dead,
Dead to eye and ear:
When she lies upon the bed,
Talking, smiling, here

In her little boudoir cap
With its bow of blue,
Where's the undiscerning chap
Wouldn't love her too?

Christmas!—o'er the sleeping mart
Answers bell to bell:
How they'll clamor in the heart
When our Love is well!