There is a white wood house near Hampstead Heath <br />in whose garden the nightingale still sings. <br />Though Keats is dead, the bird who sang of death <br />returns with melodies, on easeful wings. <br /> <br />A lock of hair the poet's love received <br />remains in the room where first it was shorn; <br />An heirloom, its history half-believed, <br />its strands now faded and its ribbon worn. <br /> <br />On polished floors, through squares of summer sun <br />I felt his footsteps move, as if the elf <br />- deceiving elf, he called her - had not done <br />with making mischief to amuse herself. <br /> <br />I saw him clip that tousled lock of hair, <br />and though he did not offer it to me, <br />I felt that I was privileged, standing there, <br />and took his gesture for my legacy.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/http-www-ericajong-com-poems-onsendinghair-htm/
