To Robert Batty, M.d., On His Giving Me A Lock Of Milton's Hair

James Henry Leigh Hunt

It lies before me there, and my own breath 
Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside 
The living head I stood in honoured 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 heaped 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 if it said, 
Patience and gentleness in power. In me 
Behold affectionate eternity.

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