Time, Who With Soft Pale Ashes Veils The Brand Of Many A Hope That Flared Against The Sky To Plant Its Heaven-Storming Banners High, Has Touched You With No Desecrating Hand; Your Beauty Wins A Ripeness Sweet And Bland As Opulent Summer, And Your Glancing Eye Glows With A Deeper Lustre, And Your Sigh Of Love Is Still My Clamouring Heart'S Command. Yet What If All Your Fairness Were Defaced, Wilted By Passionate Whirlwinds, Battle-Scarred, Your Skin Of Delicate Satin Hard And Dry? Still You Would Be The Laughing Girl Who Graced A Gloomy Manhood, By Forebodings Marred, In The Deep Wood Where Still We Love To Lie.