He to be in the great delight of paradise, and she to be in the blue-gray maze between the worlds--what tragedy! Kings might bring her presents, a husband might bring her happiness; but if he could only bring her salvation! If he could only tell her of the Bitter Tree! The body, when you came to think of it, mattered little.

All the beauty in the world could not endure more than its appointed span.
Helen was dust now, and Deirdre nothing.

What had become of the beauty of Semiramis, Alexander's darling; and Cleopatra, who loved the great proconsul; and Bathsheba, for whom David of the Psalms fell from grace?
And Balkis, queen of Sheba, with her apes, ivory, and peacocks?
Dust and ashes, dust and ashes! And Scheherazade was but a strange, sad sound.

Beauty increased and waned like the moon.

A little shadow around the eyes, a little crinkle in the neck, the backs of the hands stiffening like parchment.