Page:Poems Greenwood.djvu/102

And yet, at last, thy grief's wild storm
 Will sigh itself to rest;
Then thou mayst choose another love,
 And clasp her to thy breast;
But when she hides her glowing face
 In tearful gladness there,
O, do not let her hand displace
 This little lock of hair!

The dark, rich hue thou oft hast praised,
 This ringlet still shall hold;
Still, as the sunlight on it falls,
 Give out quick gleams of gold.
Though years roll by, no trace of change
 Its glossy rings shall wear;
It never will grow gray, beloved,
 This little lock of hair!

And when the earth weighs chill and damp
 Above my resting-place,
When fall moist tresses heavily
 Around my cold, dead face,
'Tis sweet to know a part of me
 Thine own life-glow may share,
Thou 'It keep it warm, love, always warm,
 This little lock of hair!