The wait

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