James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)

IT lies before me there, and my own breath

Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside

The living head I stood in honored pride,

Talking of lovely things that conquer death.

Perhaps he pressed it once, or underneath

Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-eyed,

And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride

With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath.

There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.

It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread

Of our frail plant,—a blossom from the tree

Surviving the proud trunk;—as though it said,

Patience and Gentleness is Power. In me

Behold affectionate eternity.