The Broken Face, by Maria Schrup Peterson, 2003

You told me on a frost and frigid riverbend
an oath of love to never end

of my sweeping hair and eyes of oaken

with golden words that were silver spoken.

With eyes on fire, cheeks aflush,

you swore that in Earth's timeless stay

and in Heaven's space sublime,

in the ocean's endless spray

and in the wind's unending chime

that nothing had lived as beauteous.

But Time, our father, will have his way

and wrest from fair her lovely portion,
and take from her the blooming flush,
and take from her, her youth's potion.

And if the cheek that blooms fate doth fade,
and the eye that sparkles bright withers,

and if the hair shining its glossy spade,

grays and snaps and breaks and brittles,

will you still tell me you love me?

And if I am maimed and cannot walk,

and if maligned and cannot talk,

and if I come, love, into harm's path,

and am burned and bowed and broken,

will you see me, shrink back, and balk?

Or cherish me with love's sweet token

and still tell me that I am beautiful?

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