Poems (Storrie)/The Opal in Her Hair

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The Opal in Her Hair.
'Tis a witch-light that allures mo,  'Tis a star that beckons still, That deludes, then reassures rue,  Sways me at its wanton will.
'Tis the pure white light of reason  Shining far my heart above, Now, by some strange act of treason,  'Tis the crimson glow of love.
At its core strange beauties shimmer— Sunlight, moonlight, gloaming too; Reds that burn, and greens that glimmer  Into shifting shades of blue.
Bright and bold as sword-blades clashing,  Soft and sinuous as a smile, From her dark hair sudden Hashing  To en-lave, command, beguile.
'Tis love's very spirit captured  And imprisoned in a stone. The beholder, deeply raptured,  Vows to win it for his own;
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Vows with heart athrob to win it,  Yields himself unto the snare Of the molten magic in it,  Of the opal in her hair.

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