Her scissors!—it was not in vain.
I hear her laugh the while her
Fingers, dimpled soft and fair,
Thrill as she clips one lock of hair;
While I, like Samson, sit still there,
And smile on sweet Delilah.
When blonde and brown locks interlace,
Or scented tresses sweep your face,
While laughter unto sighs give place,
And pouting lips are present;