Classic Poem

The gods have heard me, Lyce,
The gods have heard my prayer.
Now you, who were so icy,
Observe with cold despair
Your thin and snowy hair.

Your cheeks are lined and sunken;
Your smiles have turned to leers;
But still you sing, a drunken
Appeal to Love, who hears
With inattentive ears.

Young Chia, with her fluty
Caressing voice compels.
Love lives upon her beauty;
Her cheeks, in which He dwells,
Are His fresh citadels.

He saw the battered ruin,
This old and twisted tree;
He marked the scars, and flew in
Haste that He might not see
Your torn senility.

No silks, no purple gauzes
Can hide the lines that last.
Time, with his iron laws, is
Implacable and fast.
You cannot cheat the past.

Where now are all your subtle
Disguises and your fair
Smile like a gleaming shuttle?
Your shining skin, your rare
Beauty half-breathless—where?

Only excelled by Cinara,
Your loveliness ranked high.
You even seemed the winner, a
Victor as years went by,
And she was first to die.

But now—the young men lightly
Laugh at your wrinkled brow.
The torch that burned so brightly
Is only ashes now;
A charred and blackened bough.