The Treasured Ringlet by T. S. Arthur

I AM thinking how, one April eve,
Upon the old arm-chair
I sat, and how I fondly played
With this brown lock of hair;
Your head was pillowed on my breast,
Your eyes were fixed on mine,
I knew your heart was all my own,
I know my own was thine.

The balmy breath of violets
Came floating in the room,
And mingling with the rose’s sigh,
Spread round a rich perfume;
Yet sweeter was the warm breath which
I felt upon my cheek,
Than fragrance from the blushing rose,
Or from the violet meek.

Upon the oak the mocking-bird
Was singing loud and clear,
But notes more musical to me
Were falling on my ear;
For from your noble heart you poured
Love’s low, yet thrilling tone,
And every word your pure soul breathed
Was answered by my own.

How like a glorious rainbow, then,
The future all appeared?
No care or sorrow then we knew,
No disappointment feared.
The world’s rude waves had not begun
Across our path to sweep,
We never–save from happiness–
Had cause to sigh or weep.

But many weary years have passed
Since that bright April eve,
And you have learned since then to weep,
And I have learned to grieve;
And on thy brow, unfurrowed then,
Time, and his sister, Care,
Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed
Their silver in thy hair.

Nor Time, nor Care, nor world’s rude waves,
Have had the power to chill
The holy love which then we vowed,
That is unclouded still;
And until Death–the reaper–comes,
It ne’er shall flow away–
Our tide of love which first began
Upon that April day.

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