O summer day, all hot with bee and rose,
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Heavy with honey, like a cup of gold
A-brim with the wild wine that overflows
The limits of the world—ah! love, we hold
The cup awhile and drink, as they of old
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Before us, drinking thus, 'neath the same sky;
As we they laughed, then fell a-sudden cold—
But you are far too beautiful to die.
Fair face, wherein Life's colour softly glows,
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Flower that within your petals, fold on fold,
Hoards from the sun your sanctuary snows,
Dazzlingly hid from lovers over-bold;
As the young moon, high up above the wold,
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Grants but a gleam of whiteness to the eye
That fain would have her silver all unfold—
But you are far too beautiful to die.
The moon will set, the fairest flower close,
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This summer day be like a screed up-rolled,
Or soon or late the lingering glory goes,
Or soon or late the noblest tale is told;
Yours is a loveliness too manifold
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For sacrilegious death even to deny;
All other fairness turns to fragrant mould—
But you are far too beautiful to die.
Princess, fear not the passage to behold
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Of Beauty, living but in song or sigh,
For others must the passing-bell be tolled—
But you are far too beautiful to die.