Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher, the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th'East,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Ev'ry tress must be confessed
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently raveled.
Do not then wind up that light
In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night;
Like the sun in's early ray,
But shake your head and scatter day.