Love Sonnet XIV by Pablo Neruda
I don’t have time enough to celebrate your hair.
One by one I should detail your hairs and praise them.
Other lovers want to live with particular eyes;
I only want to be your stylist.
In Italy the call you Medusa,
because of the high bristling light of your hair.
I call you curly, my tangler;
my heart knows the doorways of your hair.
When you lose your way through your own hair,
do not forget me, remember that I love you.
Don’t let me wander lost—without your hair–
through the dark world, webbed by empty
roads with their shadows, their roving sorrows,
till the sun rises, lighting the high tower of your hair.
This poem was selected by Lesley W. (Reference Librarian)
