Maquillage
Your precious youthful portrait you polish,
Till thy cheeks dye rose and yellow seems gold.
Seeking praise her truth she shall embellish,
Concealing blemish under manifold
Brushes in prayer for brief perfection:
“Make lush my lashes, allow my eyes allure,
Veil in vanity this unloved complexion,
Feature me anew to comely contour.”
Who fed her the lie that her flaws were foes?
Who whispered she’d die unless she attain
A visage pure as those in heaven’s host,
Wherefore she sees her face and can’t complain.
Pretty pictures indeed a frame deserves;
Artless love, she ought learn, no mask can earn.
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