To Robert Batty M.D. on His Giving Me a Lock of Miltons Hair

 It lies before me there, and my own breath 
Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside 
The living head I stood in honoured pride, 
Talking of lovely things that conquer death.
 
Perhaps he pressed it once, or underneath 
Ran his fine fingers when he leant, blank-eyed, 
And saw in fancy Adam and his bride 
With their heaped locks, or his own Delphic wreath.
 

There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.
 
It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread 
Of our frail plant,--a blossom from the tree 
Surviving the proud trunk; as if it said, 
Patience and gentleness in power.
 In me 
Behold affectionate eternity.

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