Beauty has a tarnished dress, 
And a patchwork cloak of cloth 
Dipped deep in mournfulness, 
Striped like a moth.

Wet grass where it trails 
Dyes it green along the hem; 
She has seven silver veils 
With cracked bells on them.

She is tired of all these-- 
Grey gauze, translucent lawn; 
The broad cloak of Herakles. 
Is tangled flame and fawn.

Water and light are wearing thin: 
She has drawn above her head 
The warm enormous lion skin 
Rough red and gold.