Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
— T. S. Eliot, from “La Figlia Che Piange,” (“Young Girl Weeping”,) Prufrock and Other Observations. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC September 10, 2010) Originally published 1917.