Walter Clyde Curry

Though half my years besiege the aged sun, I have not lived. My robust preparation Lags tardily behind fit consummation, Droops sweatily in courses just begun. Oh, I have loved and lusted with the best, Plucked momentary music from the senses; I’ve kissed a lip or two with fair pretenses And wept for softness of a woman’s breast. My mind rebounds to nether joys and pain, Toying with filth and pharisaic leaven; I know the lift up sundry peaks to heaven, And every rockless path to hell again. I wait the hour when gods have more to give Than husks and bare insatiate will to live.

Grieve not that winter masks the yet quick earth, Nor still that summer walks the hills no more; That fickle spring has doffed the plaid she wore To swathe herself in napkins till rebirth. These buddings, flowerings, are nothing worth; This ermine cloud stretched firm across the lakes Will presently be shattered into flakes; Then, starveling world, be subject to my mirth. I know that faithful swift mortality Subscribes to nothing longer than a day; All beauty signals imminent decay; And painted wreckage cumbers land and sea. I laugh to hear a sniveling wise one say, “Some winnowed self escapes this reckless way.”