Explore "The Loss" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When thou shalt search thy glass nor find the flower / That there so long smiled gay, unwithering, / And from sad vantage of a forlorn hour / That fore nor aft unmasks one hint of Spring, / Thou mourn'st the barrenness of beauty spent / With no reserved treasure for the day / When all that youth and sunny fortune lent / No more should light adoring eyes to thee, / And fear'st thyself a-cold, by the last storm / Beat to thine inn, a still, uncarping guest, / Thy once bright eye a pilot to the worm / Making his dungeon way to his new feast, / Drop not a tear then for thy beauty fled, / But for the wounds it healed not bow thy head.