like to lie and wait, to see
My Mother braid her hair.
It is as long as it can be,
And yet she doesn't care.
I love my Mother's hair.

And then the way her fingers go;
They look so quick and white,—
In and out, and to and fro,
And braiding in the light;
And it is always right.

So then she winds it, shiny brown,
Around her head into a crown,
Just like the day before.
And then she looks, and pats it down,
And looks, a minute more.—
While I stay here, all still and cool.
Oh, isn't Morning beautiful?