Sweet poets of the gentle antique line,
That made the hue of beauty all eterne;
And gave earth's melodies a silver turn,--
Where did you steal your art so right divine?--
Sweetly ye memoried every golden twine
Of your ladies' tresses: -- teach me how to spurn
Death's lone decaying and oblivion stern
From the sweet forehead of a lady mine.

The golden clusters of enamouring hair
Glow'd in poetic pictures sweetly well;--
Why should not tresses dusk, that are so fair
On the live brow, have an eternal spell
In poesy? -- dark eyes are dearer far
Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine-bell.