Monday, January 24, 2005

Poetry from Chamber Music, by James Joyce - XXIV

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 dapplled 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.

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