The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen. - Ernest Dowson

Say, doth she weep for very wantonness?
Or is it that she dimly doth foresee
Across her youth the joys grow less and less,
The burden of the days that are to be:
Autumn and withered leaves and vanity
And winter bringing end in barrenness.

Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine.