There is grey in your hair.

    Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath

    When you are passing；

    But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing¹

    Because it was your prayer

    Recovered him upon the bed of death.

    For your sole sake—that all heart‘s ache have known，

    And given to others all heart‘s ache，

    From meagre girlhood‘s putting on

    Burdensome beauty—for your sole sake

    Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom²，

    So great her portion in that peace you make

    By merely walking in a room.

    Your beauty can but leave among us

    Vague memories， nothing but memories.

    A young man when the old men are done talking

    Will say to an old man， ‘Tell me of that lady

    The poet stubborn with his passion sang us

    When age might well have chilled his blood.‘

    Vague memories， nothing but memories，

    But in the grave all， all， shall be renewed.

    The certainty that I shall see that lady

    Leaning or standing³ or walking

    In the first loveliness of womanhood，

    And with the fervour of my youthful eyes，

    Has set me muttering like a fool.

    You are more beautiful than any one，

    And yet your body had a flaw：

    Your small hands were not beautiful，

    And I am afraid that you will run

    And paddle to the wrist

    In that mysterious， always brimming lake

    Where those that have obeyed the holy law

    Paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged

    The hands that I have kissed，

    For old sakes‘ sake.

    The last stroke of midnight dies.

    All day in the one chair

    From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged

    In rambling⁴ talk with an image of air：

    Vague memories， nothing but memories.

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