Thine hair is curled like a gene of pure love;
A spiral that twists mine intimate thought,
A hereditary dose or thereof,
O how thy tress may be a perfect lot!

One simple question thou ask'st of me,
And simple yet doth prove troubling plea;
To reply short of note will fiction thee,
Amongst the poems of a much lesser read.

With thy beauty seen taken root from head,
Shall I forever adore these fibers;
Take with me solemnly- I will to bed,
As night cub's nourish'd by mother tigers.

Yet- giving credit to thine hair divine,
Would prove false heaven in these eyes of mine.