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Http://Www.Ericajong.Com/Poems/Onsendinghair.Htm

There is a white wood house near Hampstead Heath
in whose garden the nightingale still sings.
Though Keats is dead, the bird who sang of death
returns with melodies, on easeful wings.
 
A lock of hair the poet’s love received
remains in the room where first it was shorn;
An heirloom, its history half-believed,
its strands now faded and its ribbon worn.
 
On polished floors, through squares of summer sun
I felt his footsteps move, as if the elf
–deceiving elf, he called her– had not done
with making mischief to amuse herself.
 
I saw him clip that tousled lock of hair,
and though he did not offer it to me,
I felt that I was privileged, standing there,
and took his gesture for my legacy.
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