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 wc 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.