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To Beauty - A Complaint
To Beauty - A Complaint
1 min
221
Your diamond eyes
Send shafts of gold,
My heart receives
With a curious dread.
Alas! they have
In equal ruin,
Laid waste vast lands
With wars sanguine.
The snow-filled roses
In your smile
Strike me dead:
Oh, cruel guile!
Sunlight weaving
Those sweet tresses,
A jealous breeze
With sighs, caresses.
All this is true,
It may well be said:
Your marble arms
Ensnare with lead,
But give me first
Your marble head!
