The tragedy of them that Time has sold,
The vision of a woman growing old!
IV
Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dream
Of sand wastes where a strange procession came:
Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,
Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seem
To plead for something, while with scorn supreme:
“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!
We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”