Look on his face, so aged, so set, so white:
What evil one has cast his horoscope?
What is the lack that makes him old to-night?
Hope.

Why sits he statue-like from head to feet?
His body holds no pulse of blood, meseems;
What was the voice once sang to him so sweet?
Dreams.

But, surely, still some star must gleam for him;
Some glittering friendship of the sky above?
What has he lost that trances life and limb?
Love.

Hope, dreams and love, 'tis these he fed upon,
They were his baubles and his very breath,
What now is left to him, so wondrous wan?