| I bade, because the wick and oil are spent |
| And frozen are the channels of the blood, |
| My discontented heart to draw content |
| From beauty that is cast out of a mould |
| In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears, |
| Appears, but when we have gone is gone again, |
| Being more indifferent to our solitude |
| Than ’twere an apparition. O heart, we are old; |
| The living beauty is for younger men: |
| We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears. |