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“This potrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. With the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mark of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade.” — Oscar Wilde
This potrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. With the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mark of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade.