Ophelia

My locks are shorn for sorrow

        Of love which may not be;

Tomorrow and tomorrow

        Are plotting cruelty.

The winter wind tangles

        These ringlets half-grown,

The sun sprays with spangles

        And rays like his own.

Oh, quieter and colder

        Is the stream; he will wait;

When my curls touch my shoulder

        He will comb them straight.

Elinor Wylie