You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
"Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,