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.