A Maiden To Her Mirror

He said he loved me! Then he called my hair Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow, My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow; And swore my round, full throat would bring despair To Venus or to Psyche. Time and care Will fade these locks; the merry god, I know, Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow. How will it be when I, no longer fair, Plead for his kiss with cheeks, whence long ago The early snowflakes melted quite away, The rose leaf died – and in whose sallow clay Lie the deep sunken tracks of life’s gaunt crow? When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold, Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall, Or like a spent accordion, when all Its music has exhaled – will love grow cold?