XVIII by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I never gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length, and say: “Take it.” My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee, Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more: it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks, the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral shears Would take this first, but Love is justified: Take it thou⁠—finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died.