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 Beauty has a tarnished dress, 
And a patchwork cloak of cloth 
Dipped deep in mournfulness, 
Striped like a moth.
Wet grass where it trails Dyes it green along the hem; She has seven silver veils With cracked bells on them.
She is tired of all these-- Grey gauze, translucent lawn; The broad cloak of Herakles.
Is tangled flame and fawn.
Water and light are wearing thin: She has drawn above her head The warm enormous lion skin Rough red and gold.

by Hilaire Belloc
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