"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.''

-- "October,'' by Elinor Wylie