Algernon Charles Swinburne

“ In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,
God help it! ”

“ Consumes me; ah, you're just a man, my Count,
Cannot conceive how God's will overcomes,
How the Church bears one's very soul to hold
And stoops the shoulders; then, we're set to pray
Save you your souls, gather you fruit of prayer,
Not whet you fresh blades when blood mars the old:
Ah, what must we do? ”

“ An armlet of thin gold, and on her neck
There was a plait she had of threaded yellow silk—
And all this has been done with many years,
And will not come again. I grow so old,
So old and sick, alas the evil flesh! ”