By George Sterling
Why standest thou on Beauty's topmost peak, So distant that the very stars appear Thy coronal irradiant and near? Why standest there, with all my heart too weak Ever to dream that silent Fate shall speak The words I wait forevermore to hear, Foredoomed to reckon Beauty's rose too dear And find its throne upon thine either cheek? What tho I stand so close its perfumed dart Slays sleep itself? Unclaspt thou still must go, As each year steals a petal from its heart, Till on the face where Love's mad lips would feed Death's snows are set to match thy spirit's snow— Thou'rt lost, and every other flower's a weed!