Tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air poor spirits are upcurl'd Until they crumple, or else grow like steel- Which kills in us the b… - Matthew Arnold

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Tis the gradual furnace of the world,
In whose hot air poor spirits are upcurl'd
Until they crumple, or else grow like steel-
Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring-
Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,
But takes away the power- this can avail,
By drying up our joy in everything,
To make our former pleasures all seem stale.

- Tristram and Iseult