Vanity

Within my shining clay, Could I conceive the beauty That none could wear away To dust and silver ashes; Then no more in a twilight I’d call on oaken air,

For mirror or candlelight

To build my powdered hair; Nor would I gild my features For any man’s delight,

Who courtesies and passes The lace of Limerick glasses, Shaped to a frozen light.

For pregnant with pure beauty, No more I’d gild the way

Of dust and silver ashes, With my own shining clay.