Classic Poem

In a Sevillian cloister, old and quaint,
I wandered once, and saw a picture rare:
A goddess with sublimities of hair,
Holding a rose-leaf to a suppliant saint.

Her dark and perfect locks without restraint
Fell on an ample bosom, white and fair,
And, marveling much, I murmured, half in prayer
" 'T is but a dream an artist loved to paint;

" A vagrant fancy of a fevered mind. "
For none beheld such glorious tresses shine
On earth or sea, and they will ne'er be seen!
This I believed, until my eyes did find
The misty marvel of thy hair divine,
Fit for the brow of some celestial queen.