Hear me, thou proud, deceitful maid,
Tell how thy charms must droop and fade;
Long ere thy days are done, thou'lt be
Alive for Memory's mockery.
Soft flesh will soon hang hard and dry
Like seaweed on the rocks; that eye
Soon lose its clearness, like a flood
Where late the drinking cows have stood.
Thy berry-lips, now full and red,
Will dry and crack, like snakeskins shed;
And those white stones they keep inside,
Will blacken, break, and then you'll hide.
That hair which like a golden net
Hangs loose and free, a trap well set
To catch my silly fingers now -
Will soon cause thee much grief to show.
Thy voice, now like a flawless bell,
Which thou dost ring so sweet and well -
Will shame thee into silence soon.
Thy form, tied like a silk balloon,
Full of sweet gas, straining to rise
From common earth, and sail those skies -
Will sit all huddled in a chair,
Cold at a fire, and springtime there.
These things I told a maid one day,
And laughed with scorn, and went my way;
I laughed with scorn, as home I stept -
Ah, but all night I sighed and wept.