James Joyce

(2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941 / Dublin / Ireland)

Silently She's Combing - 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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Read poems about / on: hair, sun

Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003

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