Ophelia

 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.

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