Can you forgive me, that I wear,
Dearest, a curl of sunny hair,
Not yours—yet for the sake of Love,
And tender faith it minds me of?
’Tis in this quaint old signet ring,
A curious, chased, engraven thing
That in some window charm’d my eye
And told of the last century.
Pure gold it was, but dull and blotch’d,
And bright’ning it one day, I touch’d
A spring that oped a little lid;
And there, for generations hid
In its small shrine of pallid gold—
They made such toys in days of old—
A shred of golden hair lay curl’d;
Worth all the gold of all the world,
Perchance, to him who shrin’d it so: