Medusa

In your black hair are there not nightingales Singing in the dark, and when you let it down Is there no stir in the air of tiniest sails That ever on lost seas of song were blown?

In your black hair the heart of Hyacinth Laments the daylight he shall see no more, And flowers are red as in the labyrinth The red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.

In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakes That twine themselves about Laocoon, How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaks Before they strike and turn it into stone.