Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!
One grace that grew to its full on earth:
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle's girth,
But she had her great gold hair:

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance,--floods of it, too!
Gold did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross.
Here Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!"
And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!"

So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
Than that, when some delicate evening dies,
And you follow its spent sun's pallid range,
There's a shoot of color startles the skies
With sudden, violent change,--

That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
As they put the little cross to her lips,
She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,
A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
And she broke forth, "I must speak!"

"Not my hair!" made the girl her moan;--
"All the rest is gone, or to go;
But the last, last grace, my all, my own,
Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know!
Leave my poor gold hair alone!"