Beauty

Beauty can never die. The tinted cheek
May lose its delicate color, and the brow
Reveal the furrows of unsparing Time—
The eye forget its lustre, and the voice
Gush forth no more in music—Age may bow
The now unequalled form, and chain the step
Whose touch elastic crushes scarce the flower—
Wo, Want, Disease, and Death, each in his turn,
May wreak his vengeance on the suffering clay,
Till to the sensual eye no grace remains—
Yet not one ray of that internal fire
Which is the life of beauty, and its all,
Shall e’er be quenched or dimmed! It liveth on,
The same ethereal essence—chance nor change 
Can pale its light, nor mar its perfectness—
The gift of God, eternal as Himself,
It grows in glory as its years increase!

Such beauty, dearest Isadore! is thine—
The beauty of a soul that long hath held
Companionship with purity and truth,
And known their deepest, holiest baptism!