  When we are dead, we long must lie Within the tomb; distress’d am I, Yes, sad am I that resurrection Delays so long to give perfection. Once more, before the light of life Is quench’d, before this weary strife Is o’er, fain would I, ere I perish, Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish. Some fair one I would now invite With eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light; No more I relish the advances Of wild brunettes with burning glances. Young men, exulting in their youth, Prefer tumultuous love in truth. With them excitement’s all the fashion, And soul-enthralling mutual passion. No longer young, bereft of power, As I, alas! am at this hour, I fain once more would love in quiet, And happy be,—without a riot. |
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