Wasted Beauty

This beauty is vain, this, born to be wasted,
Poured on the ground like water, spilled, and by no man tasted;
This, born to be loved, unloved shall remain
Till in white dust the lovely bones whiten again;
Till, dust in white dust, this high heart shall be still,
It shall desire and its labour be lost, it shall not have its will;
You, armies had met, once, if you turned your head:
Shall there be nothing changed? nothing, when you are dead.