"Sweet poets of the gentle antique line, That made the hue of beauty all eterne, And gave earth’s melodies a silver turn,— Where did you steal your art so right divine?— Sweetly ye memoried every golden twine Of your ladies’ tresses:—teach me how to spurn Death’s lone decaying and oblivion stern From the sweet forehead of a lady mine. The golden clusters of enamouring hair Glow’d in poetic pictures sweetly well;— Why should not tresses dusk, that are so fair On the live brow, have an eternal spell In poesy?—dark eyes are dearer far Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine-bell."