Growing Old

We'll fill a Provence bowl and pledge us deep The memory of the far ones, and between The soothing pipes, in heavy-lidded sleep, Perhaps we'll dream the things that once have been. 'Tis only noon and still too soon to die, Yet we are growing old, my heart and I.

A hundred books are ready in my head To open out where Beauty bent a leaf. What do we want with Beauty? We are wed Like ancient Proserpine to dismal grief. And we are changing with the hours that fly, And growing odd and old, my heart and I.

Across a bed of bells the river flows, And roses dawn, but not for us; we want The new thing ever as the old thing grows Spectral and weary on the hills we haunt. And that is why we feast, and that is why We're growing odd and old, my heart and I.