Dost thou not tread so gently in the night?
Unto thy face thy fear do not display,
Upon thy brow dost thou not show delight?
Yet who can say tis so, O who can say!
Thy lips tell tales of sweetest love and worth,
And night creep slow to make a pallid face,
It shows such woes and sorrows, death and birth,
Mortality directs it to the place.
Thou often wonder if thine face show young,
If time did not etch lines upon thy skin,
The words of thee would live not on thy tongue,
No rhymes or tales would ere end or begin.
Without the fears and years displayed to thine,
How dost thou face display the pass of time?