English poem
To A Lady Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses.
1. This Band, which bound thy yellow hair Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love; It claims my warmest, dearest care, Like relics left of saints above. 2. Oh! I will wear it next my heart; 'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee: From me again 'twill ne'er depart, But mingle in the grave with me. 3. The dew I gather from thy lip Is not so dear to me as this; That I but for a moment sip, And banquet on a transient bliss: 4. This will recall each youthful scene, E'en when our lives are on the wane; The leaves of Love will still be green When Memory bids them bud again.
More by George Gordon Byron
- THY DAYS ARE DONE.
- To ----
- To A Beautiful Quaker. [1]
- To A Knot Of Ungenerous Critics. [1]
- To A Lady Who Presented To The Author A Lock Of Hair Braided With His Own, And Appointed A Night In December To Meet Him In The Garden. [1]
- To A Lady, [1] On Being Asked My Reason For Quitting England In The Spring.
- To A Lady.
- To A Vain Lady. [1]