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She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.


Submitted by Philippa Kaye

Added: 2 Mar 2003 | Last Read: 23 Nov 2008 10:02 AM | Viewed: 2602 times

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