Her cruel hands go in and out, Like two pale woodmen working there, To make a nut-brown thicket clear -- The full, wild foliage of her hair. Her hands now work far up the North Then, fearing for the South's extreme, They into her dark waves of hair Dive down so quick -- it seems a dream. They're in the light again with speed, Tossing the loose hair to and fro, Until, like tamed snakes, the coils Lie on her bosom in a row. For wise inspection, up and down One coil her busy hands now run; To screw and twist, to turn and shape, And here and there to work like one. And now those white hands, still like one, Are working at the perilous end; Where they must knot those nut-brown coils, Which will hold fast, though still they'll bend. Sometimes one hand must fetch strange tools, The other then must work alone; But when more instruments are brought, See both make up the time that's gone. Now that her hair is bound secure, Coil top of coil, in smaller space, Ah, now I see how smooth her brow, And her simplicity of face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY MOTHER by EDGAR ALLAN POE A DIRGE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY TRANQUIL HABIT by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER QUATORZAINS: 9. TO MY LYRE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES FIRST MUSICIAN'S SONG, FR. LAODICE AND DANAE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY THE THUNDER STORM by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD CARCASSONNE (SUGGESTED BY LORD DUNSANY'S STORY) by BERTON BRALEY |