Poetry Archives

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.

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.

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:

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.