Back from her brow it ripples,
Falling to either side,
Forgetting a ringlet here and there
To curl where the ways divide.
A fortune of ruddy tresses
Glinting with burnished gold,—
The glorious hue that Titian loved
In Italian days of old.
How cunning the trick of pinning
Half loosely the plenteous mass!
The very sunbeams a tribute pay—
Lay down their light as they pass.
