William Butler Yeats

poems:

21

the leaving 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 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.

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