The assuaging founts of tears themselves have failed.
Life to the lees I drained, and I have grown
Too lightly wayward with its wine of love,
Too sadly troubled with its wind of change,
And some keen madness burns through all my blood.
The whimpering velvet whelps of Passion once
I warmed in my white breast, and now full-grown
And gaunt they stalk me naked through the world;
Too fondly now I bend unto the fierce
Necessity of bliss, yet in each glow