Hands that
lust and groins that rust,
Years go by
without a must.
Wrinkles come
to wreath the one
Whose eyes
look up
To days to
come.
A man to
wait for his own fate,
That is to
come on unknown date,
And awhile
to dream of her
When the
night is dark,
When the moon is gone,
As others
feast in flesh,
Bodies,
souls, warm and fresh.
Is that not
a kind of death?
Is it not a
hope for life?
Or is it
not?
The Meeting on Turret Stairs, by Frederick William Burton
