Classic Poem

Time has a way with flesh that is more cruel
Than any ruin it may work on stone.
Time is a fire, and craves no sweeter fuel
Than lissom limb, clean blood, and virile bone.
You, who today are wind and bloom, tomorrow
Will be a dismal and decrepit thing;
And I too gouty and infirm to sorrow
That hands no longer burn, or warm lips cling.

Oh, grant me sorcery of words to fashion
A crypt of song to guard your loveliness,
Where you may come, some drear day when our passion
Has turned to kindliness, or something less,
And muse — half wistful, half incredulous:
" Was I so fair, and did he love me — thus! "