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I have been a spendthrift—

Dropping from lazy fingers

Quiet coloured hours,

Fluttering away from me

Like oak and beech leaves in October.

I have lived keenly and wastefully,

Like a bush or a sun insect—

Lived sensually and thoughtfully,

Loving the flesh and the beauty of this world—

Green ivy about ruined towers,

The out-pouring of the grey sea,

And the ecstasy

Of a pale clear sky at sunset.

I have been prodigal of love

For critics and for lonely places;

I have tried not to hate mankind;

I have gathered sensations

Like ripe fruits in a rich orchard …

All this is gone;

There are no leaves, no sea,

No shade of a rich orchard,

Only a sterile, dusty waste,

Empty and threatening.

I long vainly for solitude

And the lapse of silent hours;