Shall my old heart restore?
All those kisses it once poured
Out and under autumn's door?
No second spring, shall I see
No crazy love, only aching knees.
Gone are my juvenile hours
Flown away, like the end of a dream:
Images, only images now kept,
In old vaults, and far-off islands.
Love Poem
False hearts, and cracked vows
'Tis all hell has allowed:
'Inconstancy,' my heart cries:
'Retire old heart, before you die';
For sweetness of youth has gone away...
and so I did, retire my old heart. I gave my heart liberty to play and toy, as it will, wished; in my youth that is, as did those I met; and so play with me, they did, those I met with my heart. Leisure was full and faultless back then, and whatever I sought 'need or want,' convention made perfect, for all the sweets of love. Bodies in my arms, pressed gently, a kiss, a good cry now and then, eyes that wished for more or less; that is how it was, depending on the time of day, month, year: now to accumulate these old liberties, would be foolish, I am like a bee with its sting gone. Oh, my wife would not agree, but I would; I know how I was. Call it dull equipment, or possibly a fire left burning, and now it is only embers. It practically makes a person fell like a murmur: old bones. There is no real desire beyond the term 'desire,' (enjoyment or orgasm). Much I have said about youth, and old bones, now for a spark of modesty.
I shall love my wife, 'love thee till I die,' and if you ask why, I would say: what has come with age is '...living life modestly,' self-effacingly: something, with a minute more ring. For now I am much more willing to furnish: because I understand the art of love, and giving.
[#1338/5/3/06]
Crazy Love, Old Vows and Modesty [a Poem]
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