You owned a beauty—
And while you owned it, I fed
On your glories, but now you live,
Without me, and your beauty has fallen dead.
You hated memories and pictures,
For the picture was you;
But now your beauty is a memory,
Which means you are no longer true.
I have no pictures,
For you gave none to me.
I have a poem, or two.
Would you like to see?
