Stand on the highest pavement of the stair
Lean on a garden urn
Weave, weave, weave the sunlight in your hair
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise
Fling them to the ground and turn
With fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
(from "La Figlia Che Piange" by T.S. Elliot)