It is simply entitled "Song," and to appreciate it you must try to understand the mood of a young man who believes that he has actually realized his ideal, and that the woman that he loves is the most beautiful person in the whole world.

The fact that this is simply imagination on his part does not make the poem less beautiful--on the contrary, the false imagining is just what makes it beautiful, the youthful emotion of a moment being so humanly and frankly described.

Such a youth must imagine that every one else sees and thinks about the girl just as he does, and he expects them to confess it.
Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over; Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much! You see the picture, I think,--probably some artist's studio for a background.

She sits or stands there with her long hair loosely flowing down to her feet like a river of gold; and her lover, lifting up some of the long tresses in his hand, asks his friend, who stands by, to notice how beautiful such hair is.

Perhaps the girl was having her picture painted.