THE LOSS

By Olive Tilford Dargan

When thou shalt search thy glass nor find the flower

That there so long smiled gay, unwithering,

And from sad vantage of a forlorn hour

That fore nor aft unmasks one hint of Spring,

Thou mourn'st the barrenness of beauty spent

With no reservèd treasure for the day

When all that youth and sunny fortune lent

No more should light adoring eyes to thee,

And fear'st thyself a-cold, by the last storm

Beat to thine inn, a still, uncarping guest,

Thy once bright eye a pilot to the worm

Making his dungeon way to his new feast,

Drop not a tear then for thy beauty fled,

But for the wounds it healed not bow thy head.