To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.