Let not the jesting bitter gods Who sit so goldenly aloof from us Mock us too deeply, Let them not boast they hold alone The reins of pleasure, the delight of lust- We that are but air and dust Moistening that dust a little with old wine And kindling the air with fire and love Have burned an hour or two with blossoming pangs, And, leaning on soft breasts made keen with love And murmuring fierce words of rending bliss, Have gathered turn by turn unto our lips The twin wild roses of delight, The quickflower-flames that sear into the soul Sharp wounds of pleasure and extreme desire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A YOUTH TO HIS FATHER by WALTER R. ADAMS A CONNOISSEUR by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN MY NANNIE'S AWA (1) by ROBERT BURNS THE HILLS OF OLD VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY WRITTEN IN ILLNESS by CAROLINE CLIVE TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ by WILLIAM COWPER |