THE GOLDEN RINGLET by AMELIA B. WELBY

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 sheds 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.

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