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.