O hands that clasped erewhile Hadrian's warm hands, That now found them but cold! O hair bound erstwhile with the pressing bands! O eyes too diffidently bold! O bare female male body like A god that dawns into humanity! O lips whose opening redness erst could strike Lust's seats with a soiled art's variety! O fingers skilled in things not to be named! O tongue which, counter tongued, the throbbed brows flamed! O glory of a wrong lust pillowed on Raged conciousness's spilled suspension! These things are things that now must be no more. The rain is silent, and the Emperor Sinks by the couch. His grief is like a rage, For the gods take away the life they give And spoil the beauty they made live. He weeps and knows that every future age Is staring at him out of the to be. His love is on a universal stage. A thousand unborn eyes weep with his misery.