With Special Thanks to Messrs. D. Botkin, C. Honsinger, D. Nicholas, and M. Pierce, One of Whom, (My Memory Lapses as to Which) Said Something That Gave Me the First Line.
Is she not that perfection you first touched,
Whom you have tired, and turned tired of?
Are not her hands the hands that first you clutched,
Whose texture you first knew for that of Love?
She is enough to see you to your grave,
Whose dark hair gathers up the ash of years.
What was the prize bestowed upon the brave,
Sufficient beauty keeps to stay thy fears.