...'til they cease to be beautiful."

I think the thing that's Beautiful,
resplendent once and then splayed
anesthetized on the table, under scalpel,
before surgeon, proves atomic—
you can't dissect this thing of Beauty,
exhaust the nature's held, muses lost,
you can't touch it,
you could only cut yourself in haste,
or Otherwise make a model
in sorry mimicry
on some adjacent bench,
gaudy gawky gauche
and then, yes, (I guess)
it ceases to be beautiful.