Wearisome watchings for the first star;
And the toil, toil of the dawn:
These have emptied my soul of its waves,
These have made cold prisons of my faery caves,
These have frosted
The red, red poppy-leaf of time.
Who now cares for my politics?
Who now cares for my brilliant repartees
That crushed one with an epigram,
That struck one like an oriflamme?