A Maiden and her hair

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,

They 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.