Classic Poem

To others, valueless,
To me, a most inestimable prize,
That doth possess
True loveliness.
It speaks of childish joy, and manhood's sighs.
At quiet evening, when my work is done,
I love to look upon
That Yellow Curl.

I look on it, and, lo!
My better feelings quicken at the sight,
For well I know
How soft time's stream doth flow
Around thy path, dear, gentle child, and bright,
Whose graces, though in absence, I review,
And that fair head, where grew
That Yellow Curl.

A rose-bud on a stream,
A twittering swallow first upon the wing,
A warm sunbeam:
Such, sweet one! dost thou seem,
First floweret of the early budding spring,
That, 'mongst the many joys it brings to man,
Hath nothing fairer than
That Yellow Curl.

A gift from Fairy land,
A gem from Beauty's casket, dearly prized,
A golden sand
From distant Ophir's strand;
Lovelier than Earth's perfections harmonized:
Ev'n so art thou, fair child, and such to me
Shall ever, ever be
That Yellow Curl.

A lily in the wild,
A beauteous Thought amongst a Sea of Words,
A zephyr mild:
Such seem'st thou, gifted child;
A gentle lamb chosen from many herds;
A vast idea, concentrated to
A point. Go! let me view
That Yellow Curl.

And I will hoard the gem,
Will keep the golden treasure as secure
As a rare diadem;
Blossom from a graceful stem;
I look on it, and know that thou art pure.
Thoughts crowd on thoughts, and fancies, strange and new,
Love to do homage to
That Yellow Curl.

I look on it, and all
The evil in my nature seems to die;
One glance doth call
Forth peace, and disenthrall
My pent-up fancies. Mount, my thoughts, yon sky,
And there select some graceful cherub's face,
And faultless head, to grace
That Yellow Curl.