The Witch, out of hell.
Guendolen! Guendolen!
One lock of hair!
Guendolen.
I am so glad, for every day
He kisses me much the same way
As in the tower: under the sway
Of all my golden hair.
King Sebald.
We rode throughout the town,
A gold crown on my head;
Through all the gold-hung streets,
Praise God! the people said.
The Witch.
Gwendolen! Guendolen!
Lend me your hair!
Guendolen.
Verily, I seem like one
Who, when day is almost done,
Through a thick wood meets the sun
That blazes in her hair.