Her Hair

Each morning, as the day begins,
Her hair is sunlight to my eyes,
Each morning, as a new day wins
The changeful skies.

In silken mist the tresses wind
And float about her, while my hands
With loving care each day unbind
The yellow strands.

And then a dancing cloud of gold
Plays all around my darling's face,
Each morning while the days still hold
My hour of grace.

And lightly, from my finger tips
The sadness I no more can stay,
Into the golden glory slips
And dies away.