Who is it talks of ebony,
Who of the raven's plume?
The glory of your tresses black
Will yield to neither room.

So thick the ambrosial dusk of you
Glooms in your locks, soul, sight,
The world itself is swallowed up
In darkness and delight.

Tell me no more that black must be
Light's baffle, colour's loss.
Your tresses shoot into the sun
A richly purple gloss.

It was the sunshine white of you
Which cast that wealth of shade.
There from the burning light of you
The world and I am laid.