Brunette

When trees in Spring Are blossoming My lady wakes From dreams whose light Made dark days bright, For their sweet sakes. Yet in her eyes A shadow lies Of bygone mirth; And still she seems To walk in dreams, And not on earth. Some men may hold That hair of gold Is lovelier Than darker sheen: They have not seen My lady's hair. Her eyes are bright, Her bosom white As the sea foam On sharp rocks sprayed; Her mouth is made Of honeycomb. And whoso seeks In her dusk cheeks May see Love's sign— A blush that glows Like a red rose Beneath brown wine.