The Opal in her hair.
’Tis a witch-light that allures me,
’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 flashing
To enslave, command, beguile.
’Tis love’s very spirit captured
And imprisoned in a stone.
The beholder, deeply raptured,
Vows to win it for his own;
Vows with heart athrob to win it,
Yields himself unto the snare
Of the molten magic in it,
Of the opal in her hair.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 36-37