Beauty, pity your broken soul,
Venture not in a month so cold.
The December winds will chill your bones,
‘Til heart and blood be made of stone.
Beauty, pity your clean, white hands,
Break not your thumbs upon the land.
The soil you dig reveals no trace,
Of the buried, vanished, handsome face.
Beauty, pity your satin skin,
Your arms and face now grown so thin;
Beauty, blind your seeking gaze,
That which you seek is all in flames.
Beauty, pity your loveliness,
Capture but a moment’s rest;
You search the world for a single clue—
But Beauty, the world’s forgotten you.
