Beauty itself must die! Though it subjugate men and immortals,
Yet it can never appeal unto the Stygian God.
Love but once in his life could move the ruler of Hades,
Who on the threshold then sternly regretted his vow.
Not Aphrodite herself could heal the wounds of Adonis,
Torn in his delicate skin by the redoubtable boar.
Nor was the hero saved at Troy by his mother immortal
When at the gate he died, falling as destiny bade.
But from the deep she rose with all the daughters of Nereus,
Wailing long and loud for her illustrious son.
Gods and Goddesses all lament in unanimous anguish
That the beautiful dies, fades the ideal away.
Even a dirge of lament we prize from the lips of our dear ones,
For the dishonoured and mean creep into Orcus unsung.