At Delos

An iris-flower with topaz leaves,
    With a darker heart of deeper gold,
Died over Delos when light failed
   And the night grew cold.

No wave fell mourning in the sea
    Where age on age beauty had died;
For that frail color, withering away
    No sea-bird cried.

There is no grieving in the world
    As beauty fades throughout the years:
The pilgrim with the weary heart
    Brings to the grave his tears.