Winifred's Hair.
Winifred, waking in the morning,
Locks dishevelled, sighed, "Alas!
Broken is the Venice-bodkin
That you gave me—'twas of glass.
All my auburn hair, henceforward,
Shall be given to the wind."
Ere the evening came, another's
Net of pearl her hair confined.
Frail as the Venetian bauble
I had thrust in Winifred's hair;
Lo! the net now snapped asunder,
Other hands had fastened there.
Ere the moon's wide-blossomed petals
On the breast of night had died,
Net and bodkin both deserted,
Winifred's glittering hair flowed wide!
Silver comb and silken fillet
Next in turn the wild hair bound,
Till at length the crown of wifehood
Clasped its bands that hair around,—
Golden crown of Love! displacing
Girlhood's vain adornments there.
Winifred never more shall alter,
Now, the fashion of her hair.
