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.