It was her hair that doomed her –
If there’s virtue in being drab,
then there’s nothing good in hair like that,
and when the women in greys and browns
meet and talk in the little grey town,
passing the words from mouth to mouth,
telling the news from north and south,
they never have anything good to say
of a girl who wears her hair that way,
and swings her hips as she strolls along,
eating cherries and singing songs,
and stops to chat with the men who smile
and pause from their work for a little while,
yes, nothing to say but things that are bad
of a girl who wears her hair like that.
“And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,”
From The Wanderings of Oisin: Book One by W. B. Yeats.
Inspiration by Jane Dougherty for her Month with Yeats entirely optional challenge. Image by Charles-Amable Lenoir.