You are not half so lovely as you deem,
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I know a thousand things that are more fair—
Poor child, whose looking-glass is all your dream,
Holding the worshipped and the worshipper
Tranced in a sort of visual embrace.
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No eyes will ever look into your eyes
As your own face looks into your own face,
Fair though it be—its fairness none denies;
No lover's knee will bend so long or low
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As you bend to this image that is you:
Have you not heard of faces long ago,—
Helen's and Iseult's—that were lovely too?
And have you thought that, when your face is gone,
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Lost like a faded garment too long worn,
A shrouded thing the dust and moths devour,
Of all the beauty men shall look upon,
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Those golden faces that are yet unborn,
Waiting like buds upon the earth to flower?
But, even as now your face you dote upon,
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I think of many fairer things there are;
I will not crush you with comparison
Of the young moon or of the morning star,
Nor even will I match you with the rose—
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What woman yet was ever fair as those?
But I will take this shell into my hand,
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Ponder its shape in faery oceans wrought,
Lonely and perfect, where the coral sand
Spreads its white floor, and the sea sighs its thought.
I know a fish within that turquoise sea
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That I had rather look on all the day—
Mailed like a knight, yet like a flower is he—
Yes! I would rather sit and watch him sway,
With crusted jewels for his foolish eyes,
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Posed in that liquid lapis-lazuli,
Than kiss the fairest woman 'neath the skies.
I know a snake that glides among the rocks,—
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Not Aphrodite naked in the spray,
Nor Aphrodite with a thousand frocks,
Knows such a spell to steal my wits away.
I know a beetle made of bronze and blue,
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With dusty gold about his armoured thighs,—
Can you believe him lovelier than you?
And shall I tell you of my butterflies?
Nay! I will cease, I would not bring the frown
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That writes the wrinkle; I too much adore
The face, Narcissa, that—you love still more.
A butterfly might wear that evening gown,
To-night my beetle pales, my fish grows dim,
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My snake—yea! I grow faithless even to him.
But, dear, if in your glass you once could smile,
Happy in your own beauty, yet knowing too—
There are a thousand things more fair than you,
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And beauty is but for a little while.