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 solitude¹

    Than ‘twere an apparition². O heart， we are old；

    The living beauty is for younger men：

    We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.

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