We are young

He was himself and he had lost the speed He started with, and he was left behind.

You have made The cement of your churches out of tears And ashes, and the fabric will not stand.

I shall have more to say when I am dead.

Oh for a poet - for a beacon bright

No matter what we are, and what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel

The gods are growing old; The stars are singing Golden hair to gray Green leaf to yellow leaf,—or chlorophyl To xanthophyl, to be more scientific.