Classic Poem

This crystal here
That shines so clear,
And carries in its womb a little day;
Once hammer'd will appear
Impure as dust, as dark as clay.

Even such will prove
Thy face, my love!
When age shall soil the lustre of thine eyes,
And all that red remove
That on thy spicy lip now lies:

Nor can a hand
Again command,
By any art, these ruins into frame,
But they will sever'd stand,
And ne'er compose the former same.

Such is the case,
Love! of thy face,
Both desperate, in this you disagree —
Thy beauty needs must pass;
It, of itself, will constant be.