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I.
I SHALL not paint them. God them sees, and I: No other can, nor need. They have no form, I may not close with human kisses warm Their eyes which shine afar or from on high, But never will shine nearer till I die. How long, how long! See, I am growing old; I have quite ceased to note in my hair’s fold The silver threads that there in ambush lie; Some angel faces bent from heaven would pine To trace the sharp lines graven upon mine; What matter? in the wrinkles ploughed by care Let age tread after, sowing immortal seeds; All this life’s harvest yielded, wheat or weeds, Is reaped, methinks: at my little field lies bare.