If you were young and free of care
And all the joy was ours to share,
The winding path would call your name
And I would walk with you again.
What man can ever shed old skin,
Undo what is done, start again,
Tho? Grow wings, terrorise the air;
And swoop upon his maiden fare?
Alas, you’re not the man I knew,
In love with all the world; you’re thru:
Asleep upon your bed of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies.
The pretty lambs are lame, devoured,
The appetite for spring flowers
Decayed; and the fine ornaments
Of May are worn with compliments.
Your classic lines once fresh, and born
From feelings that were true, are worn
With verses stiff that strain to rhyme,
Degraded by the march of time.
I cannot come until you prove
A man to shame the gods; first move
The hardened mountains and the field
Between my thighs, and I will yield.