Her Hair [sonnet] by James Whitcomb Riley

The beauty of her hair bewilders me–
Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide
Swirling about the ears on either side
And storming around the neck tumultuously:
Or like the lights of old antiquity
Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide,
Spilled moltenly o’er figures deified
In chastest marble, nude of drapery.
And so I love it.–Either unconfined;
Or plaited in close braidings manifold;
Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined
In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled
At any lightest kiss; or by the wind
Whipped out in flossy ravelings of gold.

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