GIVE me from out the midnight of thy hair
One tress to braid in this my votive song;
For time though fleeting, art is nathless long;
And I, though skill of workmanship not rare
Be mine, in song would make for thee, most fair!
A work of such device as shall prolong
Thy name, exalted o'er Earth's meaner throng,
And lovelier than they all in my compare.
No silversmith of Ephesus am I,
By such device to bring my craftsmen gain:
Nor make I thee the idol of my heart;
Though thou, like great 'DIANA,' whom they cry,
Dost hold within my breast as chaste a reign,
Nor ever shall thy gentle sway depart.