Brooke Boothby - A Locket of Hair

Posted by Autumn in

Bright crispéd threads of pure translucent gold!
Ye who were wont with zephyr's breath to play,
Over the warm cheek and ivory forehead stray,
Or clasp her neck in many an amorous fold,
Now, motionless, in this little shrine must hold:
No more to wanton in the eye of day;
Or to the breeze your changeful hues display:
For ever still inanimate, and cold.

Poor, poor last relic of an angel's face!
Sad setting ray;--no more thy orb is seen!
O beauty's pattern, miracle of grace;
Must this be all that tells what thou hast been!--
Come then, cold crystal, on this bosom lie
Till love and grief and fond remembrance die! 

This entry was posted on 22 July 2008 at 09:21 and is filed under . You can follow any responses to this entry through the comments feed .


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