Sonnet LXXXI

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIR

WHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form

Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine

This precious Ringlet!—still the soft hairs shine,

Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm

With sunny gleam!—Alas! each kindred charm

Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine

Wither'd to shapeless Dust!—and of their grace

Memory alone retains the faithful trace.—

Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now

Time on her brow had faded thee!—My care

Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;

And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,

Thou all of that fair Frame my love cou'd save

From the resistless ravage of the Grave!