Epitaph: For a Lady in a Tapestry

If beauty be its own perfection.
Then so were her emerald eyes,
And so her bashful feet
That were wont to dance upon mellow dreams.

If beauty be its own delicacy,
Then so were her slender wrists,
Her fingers swift as unicorns,
Longing and pale and red with rubies.

As beauty is its own absolute,
So were her thoughts serene;
And her songs were simple as stars,
They were rich and crystal as sea depths are.