第38章 POEM: THE ETERNAL

Your dear desired grace, Your hands, your lips of red, The wonder of your perfect face Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed, When you are dead.

Your beautiful hair Dust in the dust will lie -

But not the light I worship there, The gold the sunshine crowns you by -

This will not die.

Your beautiful eyes Will be closed up with clay;

But all the magic they comprise, The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies Pass not away.

All I desire and see Will be a carrion thing;

But all that you have been to me Is, and can never cease to be.

O Grave! where is thy victory?

Where, Death, thy sting?