Classic Poem

Her cruel hands go in and out,
Like two pale woodmen working there,
To make a nut-brown thicket clear —
The full, wild foliage of her hair.

Her hands now work far up the North,
Then, fearing for the South's extreme,
They into her dark waves of hair
Dive down so quick — it seems a dream.

They're in the light again with speed,
Tossing the loose hair to and fro,
Until, like tamed snakes, the coils
Lie on her bosom in a row.

For wise inspection, up and down
One coil her busy hands now run;
To screw and twist, to turn and shape,
And here and there to work like one.

And now those white hands, still like one,
Are working at the perilous end;
Where they must knot those nut-brown coils,
Which will hold fast, though still they'll bend.

Sometimes one hand must fetch strange tools,
The other then must work alone;
But when more instruments are brought,
They both make up the time that's gone.

Now that her hair is bound secure,
Coil top of coil, in smaller space,
Ah, now I see how smooth her brow,
And her simplicity of face.