The Falling Age

A rock there is where, as they say, the ocean dew distills
And from its beetling brow, there pours a copious stream
For pitchers to be dipped therein
'Twas here I had a friend washing robes of purple in the trickling stream
And she was laying them out to dry on the face of a warm and sunny rock
From her I heard the tidings
See, here the wretched sufferer comes
His youthful flesh and golden hair
Have lost their beauty
Oh, what pain!
What double grief has fallen on these halls
And swooped on them
From heaven