back ~ home ~ up ~ next











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




back ~ home ~ up ~ next