Ezra Weston Loomis Pound

In Tempore Senectutis

         "For we are old
     And the earth passion dieth;
     We have watched him die a thousand times,
     When he wanes an old wind crieth,
         For we are old
     And passion hath died for us a thousand times
         But we grew never weary.

     Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
         Sink into fluttering of wind,
         But we grow never weary
         For we are old.

     The strange night-wonder of your eyes
     Dies not, though passion flieth
         Along the star fields of Arcturus
     And is no more unto our hands;
         My lips are cold
     And yet we twain are never weary,
     And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
     The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings,
     The wind fills our mouths with strange words
         For our wonder that grows not old.

     The moth-hour of our day is upon us
         Holding the dawn;
     There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes
     Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
     As a maiden, holding her fingers,
     The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn."

     He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawn
                             Of old
         Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
               The red spears of the dawn,
               The pennants of the morning?"

     She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now
         Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
           Together with him; softly
             For we are old."