This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, <br />Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love; <br />It claims my warmest, dearest care, <br />Like relics left of saints above. <br /> <br />Oh! I will wear it next my heart; <br />'Twill blind my soul in bonds to thee; <br />From me again 't will ne'er depart, <br />But mingle in the grave with me. <br /> <br />The dew I gather from thy lip <br />Is not so dear to me as this; <br />That I but for a moment sip, <br />And banquet on a transient bliss: <br /> <br />This will recall each youthful scene, <br />E'en when our lives are on the wane; <br />The leaves of Love will still be green <br />When Memory bids them bud again. <br /> <br />Oh! little lock of golden hue, <br />In gently waving ringlet curl'd <br />By the dear head on which you grow, <br />I would not lose you for a world. <br /> <br />Not though a thousand more adorn <br />The polish'd brow where once you shone, <br />Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, <br />Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-lady-who-presented-the-author-with-the-velvet-band-which-bound-her-tresses/
