She combs her hair in silence,
her long hair she combs,
in silence and full of grace
with a stunning appearance.
The sun has lingered on the willow leaves
and on the grass, yellowed in places.
She still stands before the mirror
combing her long hair.
Stop that combing, please,
comb your long hair no more,
for I have heard of enchantment
born from a beautiful sight.
It is like a question mark for the beloved,
to stay or to walk away,
of course: before such a magical vision
he cannot show indifference.
Poem by James Joyce
