Old Songs
This song I wrote—ah me, how long ago!
When up the stair of Heaven and down again
(For even then I could not long remain),
With happy feet I used to come and go.
This ode I sang beneath a laurel-bough
Where I had sought for Truth among the dead;
This little verse (and still the page is red),
To soothe some easier pang forgotten now.
I took the dew of lilies grown apart;
The scanty wine of amphoras; and, bright
And clear, the blood that flows from trivial scars;
But with the bitter ink of mine own heart
I have not written and I must not write.
Let rust and acid dim the eternal stars.
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