I wore the beam's anadem,
Which be not described by words.
'tis like writing a poem,
Using not ink and feathers but swords.
Put on the colorful trousseau,
Of what's said to be ephemeral.
One which ye only besaw,
At the expectation's funeral.
Mustered on it a swift rose,
Which's soothly wilting by dusk.
Only to amuse some nose,
Until finally it loses its musk.
Along with the trousers of youth,
Hoping it stays on the longest possible.
One stronlgy hopes but in sooth,
Senescence is just inevitable.
Walked with the boots of flow,
Which each step makes more dreary.
Turning our walk so slow,
Because our hearts grow weary.
All that which's mentioned above,
Will decay slowly as we grow hoary.
Save of course thou my sweet love,
In thy enticing gaze i forsee glory.