It is a sad fact that beauty is sad—
That she, whom I love, whom everyone loves, can never be glad.
Sadness makes her beautiful;
Her beauty makes her sadness more beautiful still.
In her beautiful eyes, I see weariness, that it might rest, climbing to the darkening top of a beautiful, darkening hill.
Her sadness—some see only beauty—is the reason why
Light loves her beauty: her shoulders restful and still. Her inward looking eye.
Sadness is beautiful,
Hoping to be saved by millions of eyes,
Hoping to be drowned in light;
Hoping that if beauty loves her, the shadow of her sadness flies—
But there is no saving kiss. Her sadness never dies.
You, and he, can look at her, and she can, and so can I,
And she can say that she loves you, but that will be a lie.
Melancholy knows the love; the love that melancholy knows
Sleeps. Who will dare to wake her, and ask her to put on clothes?
