Poems (Welby)/The Golden Ringlet
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;
That cheek is of its bloom bereft,
That eye no more is gay;
Of all her beauties thou art left,
A solitary ray.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?