THE GOLDEN RINGLET.
Here is a little golden tress
Of soft unbraided hair,
The all that's left of loveliness,
That once was thought so fair;
And yet though time hath dimmed its sheen,
Though all beside hath fled,
I hold it here, a link between
My spirit and the dead.
Of soft unbraided hair,
The all that's left of loveliness,
That once was thought so fair;
And yet though time hath dimmed its sheen,
Though all beside hath fled,
I hold it here, a link between
My spirit and the dead.
Yes! from this shining ringlet still
A mournful memory springs,
That melts my heart and sends a thrill
Through all its trembling strings.
I think of her, the loved, the wept,
Upon whose forehead fair,
For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept
This golden curl of hair.
A mournful memory springs,
That melts my heart and sends a thrill
Through all its trembling strings.
I think of her, the loved, the wept,
Upon whose forehead fair,
For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept
This golden curl of hair.
O sunny tress! the joyous brow,
Where thou didst lightly wave,
With all thy sister-tresses now
Lies cold within the grave;
Where thou didst lightly wave,
With all thy sister-tresses now
Lies cold within the grave;
