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Sweet is your
antique body, not yet young;
Beauty withheld from
youth that looks for youth;
Fair only for your
father. Dear among
Masters in art. To all men else
uncouth;
Save me, who know your smile comes very old,
Learnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods;
For
earlier suns than ours have lent you gold;
Sly fauns
and trees have given you jigs and nods.
But soon
your heart, hot-beating like a bird's,
Shall slow
down. Youth shall lop your hair;
And you must learn
wry meanings in our words.
Your smile shall dull,
because too keen aware;
And when for hopes your hand
shall be uncurled,
Your eyes shall close, being open
to the world.
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