74
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Giving the sternness of a warrior's air
To what had else seem'd face almost too fair:
And, as in mockery of the helm, behind,
Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the wind;
Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings
A thousand colours on their auburn rings.
Two days he journey'd, till he reach'd a wood,
A very dwelling-place of solitude;
Where the leaves grew by myriads, and the boughs
Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows;
And dreaming, lover-like with open eye,
He envied the gay birds that they might fly
As with a thought from green tree to green tree,
And wing their way with their dear loves to be.
