A restless lover lies beside a beautiful woman who tells him to sleep, but his mind is fixed on how fleeting all beauty is. He asks why such loveliness should exist only to fade: the light in her eyes, the passion in her breast, the warmth of her body, her youth—all of it will eventually fail, age, and return to dust. The speaker is sorrowful and almost protesting against time itself, aware that even the body he cherishes cannot last.
Yet the woman does not argue. She simply pulls his head close to her warm chest, smiles at him with those shadowy eyes, and again tells him to sleep. The mood is intimate and melancholy, mixing sensual tenderness with a sharp awareness of mortality. Her calm repetition feels like an act of comfort that softens, but does not erase, his dread of losing her.