Classic Poem

I have heard that the tides yearn for the moon,
And the hearts of men for the Spring,
That the mountains reach eternally to the stars,
And the winds, hungering, cry in waste places;
I have heard of a youth, long ago,
Who died for a dream;
But is it not odd that I should see
In one face,
The angular, gray face
Of a worked-out, dull, old woman,
Staring into a shop-window,
All of these things?