I Cannot Subject Your Immortality To My Art

I cannot subject your immortality to my art For something deathless cannot by death survive, Nor can I anchor your beauty upon the sun Which although shines bright, is dead at night; Summer mornings oft’ become wintry evenings And everything that breathes sometime must die; Music does fade, and poetry ceases to intrigue; Tales do not amuse, and paintings are oft’ stolen; Sculptures once made are tried by the wicked sun And spring’d gardens become summer’d deserts. So, you see, not the burning sun, nor the changing weather Nor anything as ambitious as my childish craft Can I compare your strange beauty to, Since that which you are eternized by, resides in you! — Efe Chesterfield