Wilst thou in cold unfeeling cloak thy grace,
Thy beauty never bar'd to mortal gaze?
What shall 't avail thee if no single trace
Of thy perfection liveth on in phrase?
Not Time's hard sickle may thy splendour steal,
Nor from thy cheek e'er rob the damask'd rose;
Yet may the years in some small part conceal
Thy fair enchantment 'neath their outward shows.
Indulge thy poet, sweet, who would but write
A hundredth part of what thy beauty owest;
Thus may the world still hold thee in its sight
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.What would the world forfeit, could it not see,
Held in these lines, the wonder that is thee?
That's three quatrains down! And the only thing that kept me from giving up after the fifth one was (if I may be politically incorrect):
There's no such thing as writer's block. That was invented by people in California who couldn't write.
-Terry Pratchett
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