XXIV
Silently she's combing,
Combing her long hair,
Silently and graciously.
With many a pretty air.
The sun is in the willow leaves
And on the dappled grass,
And still she's combing her long hair
Before the looking-glass.
I pray you, cease to comb out.
Comb out your long hair.
For I have heard of witchery
Under a pretty air.
That makes as one thing to the lover
Staying and going hence.
All fair, with many a pretty air
And many a negligence.
