<h2>XVIII</h2>
<p>I never gave a lock of hair away<br/>
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,<br/>
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully<br/>
I ring out to the full brown length and say<br/>
“Take it.” My day of youth went yesterday;<br/>
My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,<br/>
Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,<br/>
As girls do, any more: it only may<br/>
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,<br/>
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside<br/>
Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral-shears<br/>
Would take this first, but Love is justified,—<br/>
Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those years,<br/>
The kiss my mother left here when she died.</p>
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