Men built their greatest monuments, once, at
the age of twenty-three or twenty-four,
then passed away too soon to give us more:
they reaped the oats they sowed. Now Art is flat
and feminine, the muse reborn a brat;
her face, a boy's, sweats, feverish. We swore
our vows too late. We live too long and pour
our joys and sorrows less soft-sweet, less pat.
We now begin much later to spill out
our bloodied words with any kind of craft.
Their darling faces, as they sigh and pout,
seem silly to us now, bromidic, daft.
What tragedies we are--what trash we spout!
Since we had not their innocence, we laughed.
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