Beauty

Think not, not for a moment let your mind,

Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought

That the work's done and the long day behind,

And beauty, since 'tis paid for, can be bought.

If in the moonlight from the silent bough

Suddenly speak your name

The nightingale, be not assured that now

His wing is limed and his wild virtue tame.

Beauty beyond all feathers that have flown

Is free; you shall not hood her to your wrist,

Nor sting her eyes, nor have her for your own

In any fashion; beauty billed and kissed

Is not your turtle; tread her like a dove

She loves you not; she never heard of love.