When trees in Spring <br />Are blossoming <br /> My lady wakes <br />From dreams whose light <br />Made dark days bright, <br /> For their sweet sakes. <br />Yet in her eyes <br />A shadow lies <br /> Of bygone mirth; <br />And still she seems <br />To walk in dreams, <br /> And not on earth. <br /> <br />Some men may hold <br />That hair of gold <br /> Is lovelier <br />Than darker sheen: <br />They have not seen <br /> My lady’s hair. <br /> <br />Her eyes are bright, <br />Her bosom white <br /> As the sea foam <br />On sharp rocks sprayed; <br />Her mouth is made <br /> Of honeycomb. <br /> <br />And whoso seeks <br />In her dusk cheeks <br /> May see Love’s sign— <br />A blush that glows <br />Like a red rose <br /> Beneath brown wine.<br /><br />Victor James Daley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brunette/
