WITHIN this restless, hurried, modern world
 We took our hearts' full pleasure--You and I,
 And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
 And spent the lading of our argosy.

 Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
 For very weeping is my gladness fled,
 Sorrow hath paled my lip's vermilion,
 And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

 But all this crowded life has been to thee
 No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
 Of viols, or the music of the sea
 That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.