Classic Poem

Beauty—a beam, nay, flame,
Of the great lamp of light—
Shines for a while with fame,
But presently makes night:
Like Winter's short-lived bright,
Or Summer's sudden gleams;
As much more dear, so much less lasting beams.

Winged Love away doth fly,
And with him Time doth bear;
And both take suddenly
The sweet, the fair, the dear:
To shining day and clear
Succeeds the obscure night;
And sorrow is the heir of sweet delight.

With what, then, dost thou swell,
O youth of new-born day?
Wherein doth thy pride dwell,
O Beauty, made of clay?
Not with so swift a way
The headlong current flies,
As do the lively rays of two fair eyes.

That which on Flora's breast,
All fresh and flourishing,
Aurora newly dressed
Saw in her dawning spring;
Quite dry and languishing,
Deprived of honor quite,
Day-closing Hesperus beholds at night.

Fair is the lily; fair
The rose, of flowers the eye!
Both wither in the air,
Their beauteous colors die:
And so at length shall lie,
Deprived of former grace,
The lilies of thy breasts, the roses of thy face.

Do not thyself betray
With shadows; with thy years,
O Beauty (traitors gay!)
This melting life, too, wears,—
Appearing, disappears;
And with thy flying days,
Ends all thy good of price, thy fair of praise.

Trust not, vain creditor,
Thy oft deceived view
In thy false counsellor,
That never tells thee true:
Thy form and flattered hue,
Which shall so soon transpass,
Are far more frail than is thy looking-glass.

Enjoy thy April now,
Whilst it doth freely shine:
This lightning flash and show,
With that clear spirit of thine,
Will suddenly decline;
And those fair murdering eyes
Shall be Love's tomb, where now his cradle lies.

Old trembling age will come,
With wrinkled cheeks and stains,
With motion troublesome,
With void and bloodless veins;
That lively visage wanes,
And, made deformed and old,
Hates sight of glass it loved so to behold.

Thy gold and scarlet shall
Pale silver-color be;
Thy row of pearls shall fall
Like withered leaves from tree;
And thou shalt shortly see
Thy face and hair to grow
All plowed with furrows, over-swollen with snow.

What, then, will it avail,
O youth advised ill,
In lap of beauty frail
To nurse a wayward will,
Like snake in sun-warm hill?
Pluck, pluck betime thy flower,
That springs and parches in the self-same hour.