These we may help no more. They have slipped from our hands
Like the shining sands
Of the castles we builded in childhood. The wind and the tide
Will not he denied —
Not though a King cry "Halt!" to the hurrying waters,
To the streaming manes that are grasped by the Nereid daughters.
These we must leave for the kites, in the secret strife
Of a quarrelling life.
Spent is their golden laughter. Haggard and poor
They shall pass by our door —
And it may be that out of their breaking, some music is wrung,
But never for us has the strange blind wanderer sung.