Poem by James Joyce

Silently she’s combing,

Combing her long hair

Silently and graciously,

With many a pretty air.

\The sun is in the willow leaves

And on the dappled grass,

And still she’s combing her long hair

Before the looking-glass.

I pray you, cease to comb out,

Comb out your long hair,

For I have heard of witchery

Under a pretty air,

That makes as one thing to the lover

Staying and going hence,

All fair, with many a pretty air

And many a negligence.

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