ALL of a piece were the sunset light,
The rose in the tree, and the golden girl;
Beauty, the weaver, 'twas that wove them,
Weaving deftly, as Beauty can,
Just to capture the eyes of a man,
Just to make the heart of him love them,
Setting the blood in his veins a-swirl;
Ah, the rose, and the girl, its piece-mate!
Ah, the sunset of rose and pearl!
All of a piece are the faded light,
The rose in the mire and the girl grown old;
Beauty, the trickster, 'twas that wove them,
Weaving deftly, as Beauty can,
Just to capture the soul of a man,
Just to make the heart of him love them,
Then to sicken and grow grave-cold;
Fragile wear is the cloth of Beauty —
Rose and sunset and girl of gold!