A young Apollo, golden-haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife, Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life.
Night's son was driving His golden-haired horses up; Over the eastern firths High flashed their manes.Charles Kingsley
Love, golden-haired boy, tosses His purple ball to me one more time, Invites me to play With the girl in colourful sandals. But she's from towering Lesbos, And my hair, being white, She despises. She's gasping For another girl...
No lover in any language, and certainly no poet, has confessed to missing the mark more often than Dafydd ap Gwilym. Uncooperative husbands, quick-triggered alarms, crones and walls, strong locks, floods and fogs and bogs and dogs are for ever interposing themselves between him and golden-haired Morfudd, black-browed Dyddgu, or Gwen the infinitely fair. But a great trier, even in church.
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