Girls, be good to these spiritsnOf music and poetry,nAnd lift the lyre so clear and sweetnThey need with you (?)nnBut as for me, this body,nWhich is now so arthritic:nI cannot play,nI Can barely even hold the instrument,nnAnd oh,nThe song grows heavy with the bodynnSome gloomy poemsnCame from these thoughtsnAnd useless,nWe are all born to lose life,nLike we lose our youthnnAnd oh,nThe song grows heavy with the body.nnAnd so I stepped in quite clearlynFrom my hiding placenTo then suspect nThat she would grow old and greynAnd he despaired in his mortal way and saidnnOh,nThe song grows heavy with the body.