Soft be the voice
Soft be the voice and friendly that rebukes
The error of thy way,
For sickness hath the summer of thy looks
Touched with decay.
Now may be pardoned, even for virtue's sake,
Words of less gall than grief—
The warning of autumnal winds that shake
The yellowing leaf.
They bid thee if thou leav'st thy bloom behind,
Bethink thee to repair
That ravage, and the aspect of thy mind
To make more fair.
Let not thy loss of brightness be a loss,
Which might be countless gain,
If from thy beauty it should purge the dross,
Eat out the stain.
Then beauty with pure purposes allied
Wouldst thou account—to lift
The minds of men from worldliness and pride—
A trust—not gift.
Oh! may thy sickness, sanative to thee,
Bring thee to know that trust!
That so thy soul may to thy beauty be
Not less than just.