XLV
Your hair I love despite its selfish hue
Made up of treasured sun-gold held in fee,
Not one reflected ray has been set free,
Therefore it is so brightly black to view.
Ages of eastern passion made this hue
Dark as its deepest midnights ere can be,
Splendid as noons the skies strike blanchingly,
So fiercely black, so cruelly bright it grew.
Gold hair gives back again whatever it takes,
Much shine and shimmer in the sunlight makes;
Your hair for æons has drunk deep the sun;
Slow ages swirl beneath me, one by one;
Unto my heart come thoughts that I fear there,
At sight of the black passion of your hair!