Viii

And you as well must die, beloved dust,
  And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
  This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
  This body of flame and steel, before the gust
  Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
  Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
  Than the first leaf that fell,--this wonder fled,
  Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
  Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
  In spite of all my love, you will arise
  Upon that day and wander down the air
  Obscurely as the unattended flower,
  It mattering not how beautiful you were,
  Or how beloved above all else that dies.

        Edna St. Vincent Millay