|
Then At Will By The Pale Death With His Cold Hand, Who With Time Will Stroke Your Breasts At Last; |
|
The Precious Coral Of Your Lips Long Past, Your Shoulders' Snow, Now Warm, Turned Cold To Sand |
|
Your Eyes' Sunset Lightning, The Skills Of Your Hand, To Him Before Whom All Things Fail, Will Fall |
|
That Hair That Rivale Bow, Its Bleam Will Pall, With Days And Years As Any Common Band |
|
Your Well-Formed Foot, Your So Enchanting Ways, Of Not To Dust, To Nothing Time Decays, Then None Will Bow Down For Your Beauty's Sake |
|
This And More Than This Will Come To Be; |
|
Not Even Your Bones The End Of Time Will See, Since Time Chose Of Nothing It To Make |