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.