Your golden tresses spun like yarn,
Much like the yarn you spun me,
Are still found scattered in the barn
Now, Lady, that you shun me.
How sweet to wrap them ‘round my fingers,
As you had me, in those days,
But bitterness is all that lingers
In the fading summer haze.
The eye grown more discerning must
Recant what once it saw,
For even gold must turn to dust,
Or in this case to straw.