Beauty has not spent herself. She is young Always, riotous and filled with laughter. She is still dancing with the flowers hung To her girdle, Youth following after, Rife with his music. It is the same Always: It is I who have become lame. The cricket is talking under his wheat, And the sparrow sings out from her green door, And the moon and meadow and quince tree meet Secretly, eagerly as long before. Spring's patch-quilt of magic is on the wind Always: It is I who have become blind. Year after year, the stars color the sky, And the hills color the earth, and Beauty goes Fair as the newest April passing by. Year after year, the summers blow the rose And the day is a vault of green and gold Always: It is I who have become old! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAINY SEASON by CLARENCE MAJOR ALL GOATS by ELIZABETH JANE COATSWORTH AN EGYPTIAN PULLED GLASS BOTTLE IN THE SHAPE OF A FISH by MARIANNE MOORE OVER THE RIVER by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST THOSE WHO LOVE by SARA TEASDALE THOMAS A KEMPIS: DE IMITATIONE CHRISTI by RICHARD ROGERS BOWKER |