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 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.

The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

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