The transitory fame of twilight years?
Will thy soul cry out only for the song,
The red dawn and the glad triumph of love?
Wilt thou indeed forget the days of pain,
The ineffectual prayers,
The lies of time and the bitterness of defeat?
Or, remembering these things,
Wilt thou forget the hands of women and the rude love of men,
And be glad of thy dark quietude?
When thou art part of the impending gloom,