When I look at your comely head
And the long fingers delicately live
And the bright life born to be dead
And the happy blood to be shed
And the eagerness that cannot survive
And the trust made to be betrayed
And the hope certain to be cheated cold
And the young joy to age and fade
And the making to be unmade
And the endurance to grow old,
I die within me.  And I curse
The witless fate of man without all cure.
Music I curse, and verse,
And beauty worse,
And every thing that helps us to endure.

      T.H. White