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 My locks are shorn for sorrow 
Of love which may not be; 
Tomorrow and tomorrow 
Are plotting cruelty.
The winter wind tangles These ringlets half-grown, The sun sprays with spangles And rays like his own.
Oh, quieter and colder Is the stream; he will wait; When my curls touch my shoulder He will comb them straight.

by Elinor Wylie
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