The marble brow of youth was cleft
With care; and in those eyes where once hope shone,
Desire, even like a lioness bereft
Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each one
Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly
These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown
In autumn evening from a poplar tree.
Each like himself, and like each other were
At first; but some, distorted, seemed to be
Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air;