A Maiden and her hair

Her cruel hands go in and out,

Like two pale woodmen working there,

To make a nut-brown thicket clear—

The full, wild foliage of her hair.

Her hands now work far up the North,

Then, fearing for the South’s extreme,

They into her dark waves of hair

Dive down so quick—it seems a dream.

They’re in the light again with speed,

Tossing the loose hair to and fro,

Until, like tamèd snakes, the coils

Lie on her bosom in a row.

For wise inspection, up and down

One coil her busy hands now run;

To screw and twist, to turn and shape,

And here and there to work like one.