Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all. - William Butler Yeats

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams
Into a common light of common hours,
Until old age bring the red flare again.

I have just read a long novel by Henry James. Much of it made me think of the priest condemned for a long space to confess nuns.

Ah, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer's age
Bred to be a hero's wage.
'Were not all her life but a storm,
Would not painters pain a form
Of such noble lines,' I said,
'Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form.