On a Lock of Milton's Hair. 
By Hunt, James Henry Leigh. 


It lies before me there, and my own breath
Stirs its thin 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 rich 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 though it said,
Patience and gentleness is power for me:
Behold, affectionate eternity.