The Locket

My love carries a photograph 
In a locket made of silver 
That delicately hangs around her neck
So precious to her is that 
Locket and its treasure of the 
Likeness of the man that she loves


Often in the morning, she can be 
Found polishing with a 
Piece of silk taken from a dress she used to wear
Seldom does an afternoon pass 
Where she can't be seen with 
The locket laying open in the palm of her hand
And every night, before she sleeps 
She kisses her love and gently hangs 
The locket on the post of her bed


My love carries a photograph 
In a locket made of silver
And the likeness is not of me