Beauty, be not vain, for oft are thee called
sacred and adored, though thou art not so;
for those whom thou think’st do of thee crow,
praise not Beauty, thine coiled locks wane bald.
From paint and pen, which but thy stewards be,
much more pleasure, than from thoughts of thee, flows,
and quick to our best artists worship goes,
while scarce words of aesthete philosophy.
Thou art slave to quill, brush, and nature’s tune,
and dost with landscape, page, and canvas dwell,
and child or luck can make us awe as well
and better than thy pose; why ought thou swoon?
One short hour past, and thou crumbling lie,
beauty vanishes; Beauty: thou shalt die.
Fun assignment for my creative writing class this week. We took one of our favorite poems and replaced the words to make it our own. If you are wondering which one I took this from (though I think the diction, meter, et al. give it away), this started from John Donne’s “Death, Be Not Proud”.