Poetry Archives

Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
  Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
  Love falser than a hundred hells.

Its face is often but a screen
  To hide a devil’s heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
  By winning looks of heartless wile.

Its laughing smile is but the gleam
  That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
  Then leaves the trusting heart to break.

Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
  I can not bear to hear the name;
For, oh! Too oft in it I see
  A soul of falsehood and of shame!