Poems (Welby)/The Golden Ringlet

by Amelia Welby

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.

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.

O sunny tress! the joyous brow,
 Where thou didst lightly wave,
With all thy sister-tresses now
 Lies cold within the grave;
That cheek is of its bloom bereft,
 That eye no more is gay;
Of all her beauties thou art left,
 A solitary ray.

Four years have past, this very June,
 Since last we fondly met—
Four years! and yet it seems too soon
 To let the heart forget—
Too soon to let that lovely face
 From our sad thoughts depart,
And to another give the place
 She held within the heart.

Her memory still within my mind
 Retains its sweetest power;
It is the perfume left behind
 To whisper of the flower;
Each blossom, that in moments gone
 Bound up this sunny curl,
Recalls the form, the look, the tone
 Of that enchanting girl.

Her step was like an April rain
 O'er beds of violets flung,
Her voice the prelude to a strain
 Before the song is sung;
Her life—'t was like a half-brown flower
 Closed ere the shades of even,
Her death, the dawn, the blushing hour,
 That opes the gate of heaven.

A single tress! how slight a thing
 To sway such magic art,
And bid each soft remembrance spring
 Like blossoms in the heart!
It leads me back to days of old,
 To her I loved so long,
Whose locks outshone pellucid gold,
 Whose lips o'erflowed with song.

Since then I've heard a thousand lays
 From lips as sweet as hers,
Yet when I strove to give them praise,
 I only gave them tears;
I could not bear, amid the throng
 Where jest and laughter rung,
To hear another sing the song,
 That trembled on her tongue.

A single shining tress of hair
 To bid such memories start!
But tears are on its lustre—there
 I lay it on my heart:
O! when in Death's cold arms I sink,
 Who then, with gentle care,
Will keep for me a dark-brown link—
 A ringlet of my hair?