I Cannot Subject Your Immortality To My Art
I cannot subject your immortality to my art
For something deathless cannot by death survive,
Nor can I anchor your beauty upon the sun
Which although shines bright, is dead at night;
Summer mornings oft’ become wintry evenings
And everything that breathes sometime must die;
Music does fade, and poetry ceases to intrigue;
Tales do not amuse, and paintings are oft’ stolen;
Sculptures once made are tried by the wicked sun
And spring’d gardens become summer’d deserts.
So, you see, not the burning sun, nor the changing weather
Nor anything as ambitious as my childish craft
Can I compare your strange beauty to,
Since that which you are eternized by, resides in you!
— Efe Chesterfield
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