Thy mouth, whereof the worm was amorous,
Thy brows, whereon some waning moon had power,
Thy breasts, corruptible as any flower,
And all thy troubled beauty tremulous—

These, these, my careful love hath laid away,
And in the tomb its marble dreams have made,
Thou sleepest, by no dawn or noon betrayed
To the cold light of time's corrosive day.

Yes, till my brain and all the dreams thereof,
And mournful memories, are bitter mould,
Thou liest, lovelier with death and love,

Than any queen ensepulchered of old,
Whose balmy cerements, with a soft perfume,
Make sweet for aye the mausolean gloom.