<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=558867" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Each Lock of Your Hair</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love the way your hair curls through<br>The ribbons and the gold; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It seems to me the laughter of children prancing<br>Around a Maypole, <br>With the hair-suited creatures out and pullulating: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is something sincerely pagan-<br>It really doesn’t exist anymore, <br>And I try and mouth it to the briny star, <br>But the traffic roars and pulls<br>Filled with things too fast to care, <br>True and modern gods to plush and placate to, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it exists in your hair in this time, <br>The cheerless castles and their wan girls, <br>Their grotto’s water-dragon’s aquatic swirls, the spume of <br>Fairies in the waves<br>Make invisible phosphorescent too ephemeral <br>To be proved, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But every paraplegic scientist who keeps close-lipped<br>To secret renunciations of every entire hemisphere, <br>Deep in the night, tremulous- brought out in<br>The dark empiricism of somnolent senses, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Knows beyond theorem, beyond the dire motherhood of the grave, <br>And slinging star of death; beyond the rhythmic chaos of the waves, <br>The proof of things which shall never be reclaimed<br>All a glimmer and alive in each lock of your hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=558867" data-title="In Each Lock of Your Hair de Bret R. Crabrooke" data-description="I love the way your hair curls through The ribbons and the gold; It seems to me the laughter of children prancing Around a Maypole, With the hair-suited creatures out and pullulating: This is something sincerely pagan- It really doesn’t exi..."></div> </div> </div>

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