Beauty may come to me when I am old,
Now I see pearls, and know not by whom cast.
So I can give you only what may die,
My destiny, my mansions in the sky,
My longing for the Gods: I give you things
That only make me afraid that I am I
And still no more,—innate reechoings
Of trumpetings for deeds a long-time done,
Or is it that they are not yet begun?
For answer of the sort a mortal brings