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!