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.