Friday, January 12, 2024

But Who a Day Can Trust?

 On the Death of a Beautiful Young Lady
by John Clare

 Ye meaner beauties cease your pride,
 Where borrow'd charms adorn;
 Here nature aid of art defied,
 And blossom'd all its own. 

 The rose your paint but idly feigns,
 Bloom'd nature's brightest dyes;
 The gems your wealthy pride sustains,
 Were natives of her eyes. 

 But what avails superior charms
 To boast of when in power,
 Since, subject to a thousand harms,
 They perish like a flower. 

 Alas! we've nought to boast of here,
 And less to make us proud;
 The brightest sun but rises clear
 To set behind a cloud. 

 Those charms which every heart subdue,
 Must all their powers resign;
 Those eyes, like suns, too bright to view,
 Have now forgot to shine. 

 Her beauties so untimely fell,
 What mortal would be proud?
 The day return'd, and found her well,
 But left her in her shroud. 

 To-day the blossom buds and blooms,
 But who a day can trust?
 Since the to-morrow, when it comes,
 Condemns it to the dust.