Beauty’s Blemish
You are as young, O lady mine,
As ere you were in olden days,
Your lips are red, your blue eyes shine,
And still you have your girlish ways.
I hate to think what years have flown
Since first I praised these things, mine own.
Your frocks still have that youthful cut,
Garbing a svelte form, slim and flat.
You should be spreading, darling but
Your middle-age has brought no fat.
Indeed, you sometimes seem at nights
A flapper, seen in certain lights.
My fond eyes have surveyed you, sweet,
Thro’ all these years and found no fault.
Your lustrous hair, your tiny feet
Are still perfection. Yet a halt
In my high praise wakes sudden fears:
You’re growing old behind the ears!
Yet, even then, I’d not repine
If that grey matter which should fill
That pretty head, O lady mine,
Gained age, ’twere compensation still;
And I’d forgive the ravening years,
If you’d mature above the ears.
