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Poem

I.

What delight is there, when the wine of youth
     runs out and just the dregs of life remain?
When childhood flowers, and love's fire becomes truth,
     the lusts of adolescence touch the brain;

when youth is gone, and life's sunsets approach,
     the carnal pleasures of one's early years 
cease as the winters of old age encroach;
     and Cupid's arrow-tipped, twain-feathered spears 
no longer fly true—for autumn's reproach
     wilts passion like coffins that rest on biers.  

			II.

With vanished youth ardent love is absent;
     yea! true love, as well, is scarce and then gone;
life's spring and passion are together meant,
     which is a law of nature's lexicon.
 
But love desired is a love to acquire;
     though plenteous are the fish that fill the sea,
casting nets (for love), like scalding Greek fire,
     can burn and hurt the once young and carefree;
sought hastily, love without St. Elmo's Fire
     can turn young lovers into a casualty. 

			III.

Ephemeral is love! The Muse, changeless,
     unlike suitors won't dash one's youthful heart.
Her love is permanent; and she, viewless, 
     will bear one aloft to one's rhyming art.

A higher purpose is the divine Muse,
     and no greater love has one known than she;
the bright north star to one's Parnassus, whose
     west wind for one blows light and feathery,
she'll inspire and put one to divine use,
     an assertion that's no minor decree!

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