Edith Nesbit

The Eternal

   YOUR dear desired grace,
      Your hands, your lips of red,
   The wonder of your perfect face
      Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed,
            When you are dead.

   Your beautiful hair
      Dust in the dust will lie—
   But not the light I worship there,
      The gold the sunshine crowns you by—
            This will not die.

   Your beautiful eyes
      Will be closed up with clay;
   But all the magic they comprise,
      The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies
            Pass not away.

   All I desire and see
      Will be a carrion thing;
   But all that you have been to me
   Is, and can never cease to be.
   O Grave! where is thy victory?
      Where, Death, thy sting?