With passing time, as beauty’s sun shall set,
No more to shine upon admiring eyes;
When voices in their dying praise forget,
How will your beauty’s precious worth survive?
Though paintings, portraits and the like may hold
Reflections of what outward worth once was,
They are but matte, where paltry truth is told,
And show no more than could a hand held glass.
These word shall therefore ever set the tone,
Affirming that a paragon once breathed
Whose timeless beauty never true 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.