Ill 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 mould In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears, Appears, and 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.
Return to the William Butler Yeats library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because Of His Many Moods