Thy locks are full of sunny sheen
In rings of gold yronne,[C]
All in the bloomèd May,
We pri' thee pass not on;
If thou dost leave the sun,
Delight is with thee gone,
Oh! stay.
Thou art the fairest of thy feres,
We pri' thee pass not on.
[Footnote C: His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.--Chaucer, _Knight's
Tale_. (Tennyson's note.)]
=Contributions to Periodicals 1831-32=