i never gave a lock of hair away

to a man, dearest, except this to thee,

which now upon my fingers thoughtfully

i 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 may

now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,

taught drooping from the head that hangs aside

through sorrow’s trick. i thought the funeral-shears

would 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.