Classic Poem

Then go. I do not want you. It is over.
The flickerings of our dream have had their day.
Imagine now that he who was your lover
Has sunk in drink, or died, or moved away.
And all that flamed between us once is older
Than hopes that died before our lives began.
Summer is done for us; the dusks grow colder;
We are not gods, but futile woman and man.
With ineffectual will and dazzled eyes
We sought a faith beyond our power to make. . . .
The potter, as the dizzying swift wheel flies,
Must guard his spirit lest his fingers shake
And the vase lie in ruin. . . . It is over, —
Potter, and pot, and bad clay, and weak lover.