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George Gordon Byron - To A Lady, Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses
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This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
  Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
  Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
 `Twill blind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again `t will ne`er depart,
  But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip
  Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
  And banquet on a transient bliss:

This will recall each youthful scene,
  E`en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
  When Memory bids them bud again.

Oh! little lock of golden hue,
  In gently waving ringlet curl`d
By the dear head on which you grow,
  I would not lose you for a world.

Not though a thousand more adorn
  The polish`d brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
  Beneath Columbia`s fervid zone.
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