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 lookingglass.

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.

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