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?

THE POINT OF VIEW: I.