XVIII
I never gave a lock of hair awayTo a man, Dearest, except this to thee,Which now upon my fingers thoughtfullyI ring out to the full brown length and say“Take it.” My day of youth went yesterday;My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,As girls do, any more: it only mayNow shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,Taught drooping from the head that hangs asideThrough sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral-shearsWould take this first, but Love is justified,—Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those years,The kiss my mother left here when she died.