These were his songs. Now he has broken them.
All he has made, that has he also slain :
Seeing my beauty budding, broke the stem ;
Finding his likeness here, where he has lain,
Finding the flame of his hurt spirit here
In this small pool that motioned with his shade,
Seeing himself, he smote me with his fear —
He only lives to break what he has made.

All, all he fathered, all that lived by him,
Shut from his face with banging of loud doors.
The sun, losing his spirit, now is gone dim ;
Only the sea that roared before, still roars.

Now it is time to go, softly away ;
We will grow fragile, songs, soon we will fade.
He has no place for us, we cannot stay —
He cannot bear the beauty he has made.

Where will we go, my songs, under the sun ?
There is no place to go, no, there is none.

The sea is scornful of our sufferings.
The sea is like him, careless of all things,
Beating her own, and mourning that they die.
All things are like him — beautiful they lie
Pressing their image wildly on our grief,
Prone in their beauty, terrible and brief,
And when they face us, bitterly afraid,
They cannot bear the beauty they have made.

Where will we go, my songs? He does not know
Your faces any more, or love your lips.
We are too frail to last. There will be snow,
The noise of rivers, and the winter's whips.

To wind and water we will give our woe
That once made music. Let them follow him.
When all the sky is darkened at the rim
And he and we have stumbled in its shade,
No one will know the beauty he has made.