ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR.
185
A child's bright tresses, by the breezes kissed
To sweet disorder as she flies,
Veiling beneath a cloud of golden mist
Flushed cheek and laughing eyes—
Or fringing like a shadow, raven-black,
The glory of a queen-like face—
Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back
In wild and wanton grace—
Or crown-like on the hoary head of Age,
Whose tale of life is well-nigh told—
Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage
To Bethany of old.
I see the feast—the purple and the gold—
The gathering crowd of Pharisees,
Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold
Yon woman on her knees.
