I BADE, because the wick and oil are spent
And frozen are the channels of the blood,
My discontented heart to draw content
From beauty that is cast out of a mould
In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears,
Appears, but when wc 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 rribute of wild tears.
More verses by William Butler Yeats
- The Rose In The Deeps Of His Heart
- Under The Moon
- The Song Of The Old Mother
- To An Isle In The Water
- The Attack On ‘the Playboy Of The Western World,’ 1907