Her living hair was brighter than chill gold With shoots of brightness running down its mass And straying out to lighten the dun air Like phosphorescent sparks off a pale sea, And while she sang, she combed it with a comb Wrought curiously of gold and ebony, Seeming to plait each celandine-bright tress With the spring’s sound, the song’s sound and the sound Of its own living whisper, warm and light So that he longed to touch it, longed to stretch If but a finger out across the space That stood between his blood-stained, stiffened self And all this swaying supple brilliance, Save that her face
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