A Poet To His Beloved
All the praises you pick along the streets
Go confirm before a new-bought mirror,
And if those rare glories you all find true
Then know she’s near that beauty shearer.
Who’s time, the unerring author of loss and decay.
And so while you wait for she who must deprive
Learn your immortal splendor to wisely salt away
In shrewd acts that the lay waste of time survive.
Reincarnate in yourself some elegant luster
To represent you in the ageless posterity,
And water with care the shoots that germinate
In the fecund garden of your youthful fertility.
The sagacious mother leaving nothing to chance,
Invest in an eternity of prayer, for if bootless
There’s nothing of yours to lose to time-owned eons,
For this enterprise outlives all, and gives all for less.
With these desiderata carefully appropriated,
Now your chance to savor the trappings of luck and time
With vast unapologetic bites and greedy careless teeth
Till the bells of the end give their long-awaited chime.
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