Your golden curls, your golden curls! I miss
As day could miss the sun, and sun would May
And if that month were I a bud to kiss
I'd splay to none, unless your light was day.
True beauty is; in essence of all springs
And that same glow had favored you at birth.
Tho' sweetly gifts to soil your flesh now brings
Is I whom miss, and buried there my worth.
How jealous I; of grass upon your mound
As they can reach to where now lays my love
And tap upon your coffin; peace is found!
That essence none to waste - may spring behove!

You were my gold of Spring, tho' now returned
within the sacred mire, your spring had earned.