On the lips of the passionate stars,
As they faint at the gray pale face of day
Peering through cloudy bars.
With my hands so old I gather the gold
Of the flowers around me spread;
For every one is sprouted and spun
From the bones of a wise man dead;
And I plant them again with wisdom and pain,
Until they be perfected.
I am weak, I am old, but I gather the gold