Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show, And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, Short is the glory of the blushing rose; The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth; And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appears The Date of Age, the Calends of our Death -- But ah, no more! -- this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: WHY by EDITH SITWELL A DOUBLE BALLAD OF GOOD COUNSEL by FRANCOIS VILLON THE DEAD PAN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A LITTLE WHILE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE; A LEGEND OF GOTHAM by JOHN GODFREY SAXE SABBATH THOUGHTS by GRACE AGUILAR |