The Living Beauty
I'll say and maybe dream I have drawn content—Seeing that time has frozen up the blood,The wick of youth being burned and the oil spent—From beauty that is cast out of a mouldIn bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears,Appears, and when we have gone is gone again,Being more indifferent to our solitudeThan 'twere an apparition. O heart, we are old,The living beauty is for younger men,We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
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