There is no beauty surer than your own,
Clear as a carving from the cleanest stone.
A curve of life upon the dead white sand,
You are a vibrant tone's whole quivering,
The full flash that a flaring torch can fling.
Your beauty is a thing too sharp to bear
In the hour's fierce torridness and vivid glare.
I stare for the relief that it will be
When you are covered by the flat cold sea.