Late-Flowering Lust

My head is bald, my breath is bad,

    Unshaven is my chin,

I have not now the joys I had

    When I was young in sin.

I run my fingers down your dress

    With brandy-certain aim

And you respond to my caress

    And maybe feel the same.

But I’ve a picture of my own

    On this reunion night,

Wherein two skeletons are shewn

    To hold each other tight;

Dark sockets look on emptiness

    Which once was loving-eyed,

The mouth that opens for a kiss

    Has got no tongue inside.

I cling to you inflamed with fear

    As now you cling to me,

I feel how frail you are my dear

    And wonder what will be—

A week? or twenty years remain?

    And then—what kind of death?

A losing fight with frightful pain

    Or a gasping fight for breath?

Too long we let our bodies cling,

    We cannot hide disgust

At all the thoughts that in us spring

    From this late-flowering lust.