That wrinkle, when first I espied it,

  At once put my heart out of pain;

Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,

  Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,

  When woman's declension begins;

When, fading from all that is pleasant,

  She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,

  I would sooner, my exquisite mother!

Repose in the sunset of thee,

  Than bask in the noon of another.