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.