I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever dwelt in the West Countrie.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare—rare it be;
And when I crumble who will remember
This lady of the West Countrie?
Near Cleeve.
I have seen some that had in them no touch of death except the word, and that did no more than make a rustle and a shadow in the beauty as death does in the same poet’s “Three Cherry Trees”:—