My locks are shorn for sorrow <br />Of love which may not be; <br />Tomorrow and tomorrow <br />Are plotting cruelty. <br /> <br />The winter wind tangles <br />These ringlets half-grown, <br />The sun sprays with spangles <br />And rays like his own. <br /> <br />Oh, quieter and colder <br />Is the stream; he will wait; <br />When my curls touch my shoulder <br />He will comb them straight.<br /><br />Elinor Morton Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ophelia/
