The color of my lady's hair is brown;
A hot, rich brown, shot through with fiery gold;
That tint Etruscan artists chased of old
Into a clasp for Lydia's fluttering gown.
Dark in the shade, but blazing like a crown
Of ruddy light, through locks and curls untold,
When the sun strikes it and its manifold
Great tresses almost to her knees sweep down.
Sweet, sweet as amber is her hair to smell,
When winds awake its fragrance from repose--
Balm to the senses and the heart as well.
And I have lain where all that glory fell
Across my face; have kissed it, felt it close
My eyes in dreams I dare not try to tell.