Time And Beauty

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Your hair, that burning gold
Naked might not behold,
Shall tarnish, and your skin
Wrinkle its satin in.
And your lips, like a rose,
Uncolour and unclose;
Yet, because you are made
Of beauty, not arrayed
In beauty's covering.
Hold Time for a vain thing.
Time shall bid youth let fall
Its colours one and all,
And wither in chill air
Bright blood and burning hair;
When these are overpast.
The bones of beauty last.

© Arthur Symons