A Child's Hair
A letter from abroad. I tear
Its sheathing open, unaware
What treasure gleams within; and there-
Like bird from cage-
Flutters a curl of golden hair
Out of the page.
From such a frolic head 'twas shorn!
('Tis but five years since he was born.)
Not sunlight scampering over corn
Were merrier thing.
A child? A fragment of the morn,
A piece of Spring!
Surely an ampler, fuller day
Than drapes our English skies with grey-
A deeper light, a richer ray
Than here we know-
To this bright tress have given away
Their living glow.
For Willie dwells where gentian flowers
Make mimic sky in mountain bowers;
And vineyards steeped in ardent hours
Slope to the wave
Where storied Chillon's tragic towers
Their bases lave;
And over piny tracts of Vaud
The rose of eve steals up the snow;
And on the waters far below
Strange sails like wings
Half-bodilessly come and go,
Fantastic things;
And tender night falls like a sigh
On
châlet
low and
château
high;
And the far cataract's voice comes nigh,
Where no man hears;
And spectral peaks impale the sky
On silver spears.
Ah, Willie, whose dissevered tress
Lies in my hand!-may you possess
At least one sovereign happiness,
Ev'n to your grave;
[...] Read more
poem by William Watson
Added by Poetry Lover
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