And you as well must die, beloved dust, And
all your beauty stand you in no stead; This
flawless vital hand, this perfect head, This
body of flame and steel, before the gust of
Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be
as any leaf, be no less dead than the first
leaf that fell this wonder fled. Altered,
estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my
love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my
love, you will arise upon that day and wander
down the air obscurely as the unattended
flower, it mattering not how beautiful you
were, or how beloved above all else that dies.

   -Edna St. Vincent Millay