 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
BEAUTY'S DECAY
Youth speeds its springtide like a princely flower,And beauty is the jewel of its hour,
That blooms exulting in its triumph there,
‘This work is mine and where is aught so fair?’
Nature looks on and doth in raptures move,
Feeling the earnest of delight is love;
Its pains and happiness are sighs and smiles,
And life in bud with opening hope beguiles;
While scarce a pulse beats 'neath the fickle reign
Of present happiness and future pain.
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A lily skin, a cheek of rose, dark hair,
Bright eyes and ruby lips—time's poor display—
When every hour can steal a charm away?
| The Poems of John Clare | |