By George Sterling

What spoils of perfectness from far and wide
  Were gathered for thy full perfectitude!
  What blossoms delicate and subtly-hued,
And nacre from the moon's unsullied side,
Upon thy maiden countenance abide!
  And on thy mouth lost roses are renewed
  And in thine eyes celestial light is dewed.
Ah! That thy voice might live what music died!

Thou art the sum of all, and final sweet
Of all fair things made hopelessly complete.
  Thy feet on deathless asphodels are led;
    Thou waitest where the gates of vision are,
  With Heaven a golden mist beyond thy head,
    As lies the sunset round the evening star.

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