Yet you will be like that corruption too,
Like that infection prove—
Star of my eyes, sun of my nature, you.
My angel and my love!
Queen of the graces, you will even be so,
When, the last ritual said,
Beneath the grass and the fat flowers you go.
To mould among the dead.
Then, O my beauty, tell the insatiate worm,
Who wastes you with his kiss,
I have kept the godlike essence and the form
Of perishable bliss!