But the gray and the cold are haunted
By a beauty akin to pain, --
By a sense of a something wanted,
That never will come again.

But the gray and the cold are hauntedBy a beauty akin to pain, --By a sense of a something wanted,That never will come again.

Do I hate you? No! Not hate?
Hate's a word far too intense,
Too alive, to speak a state
Of supreme indifference.

The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.

Those black eyes I once so praised
Now are hard and sharp and cold;
Where's the love that through them blazed?
Where's the tenderness of old?

Give me the old enthusiasms back,
Give me the ardent longings that I lack, --
The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth,
The sweet mirage that lured me on its track. . . .