The scales of love’s blindness dropped off of his eyes;
For he marked the fixed hue of the maidenly blush,
And detected the carmine that passed for a flush
Of the life-giving tide, with its ebb and its flow,
Like a lake in the sunset with reddening glow.
“Faugh!” thought he,—“is’t only a semblance, fair saint,
Of beauty and youth,—only powder and paint?
Have I been deceived by the likeness of truth,
By counterfeit bloom and by parodied youth?
Ah, that beautiful brow I was wont to declare