With passing time, as beauty’s sun shall set,
No longer shining on admiring eyes;
When voices in their dying praise forget,
How will your beauty’s precious worth survive?
Though paintings, portraits and cool marble hold
Reflections of what outward worth once was,
They are but matte, where paltry truth is told,
And show oft less than could a hand-held glass.
May words here writ forever set the tone,
Affirming that a paragon once breathed
Whose timeless beauty never yet was shown
In man-made image or in bold decree.
So say I more, or say I more in less;
No woman lived that beauty more did bless.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.