I

One last glance at these sands and stones!

Time goes past men, and lives to his liking,

Steals, and ruins, and sometimes atones.

Why should he be king, though, and why not I king?

There now, that wind, like a swarm of sick drones!

II

Is it heaven or mere earth (come!) that moves so and moans?

Oh, I knew, when you loved me, my soul was in flowerage—

Now the frost comes; from prime, though, I watched through to nones,

Read love's litanies over—his age was not our age!

No more flutes in this world for me now, dear! trombones.

[Pg 393]

III

All that youth once denied and made mouths at, age owns.

Facts put fangs out and bite us; life stings and grows viperous;

And time's fugues are a hubbub of meaningless tones.

Once we followed the piper; now why not the piper us?

Love, grown grey, plays mere solos; we want antiphones.

IV

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