Were I but far bolder in my youth,
would I then drink of a silver chalice,
and ply my hands o’er wanton maids
whose rose-scented thighs and silk lips
could but bear the weight of my desire,
and be the leisure of my excised sojourn,
‘ere, I would be as Caesar upon his dais.
No martyred cause would I then exhume,
not for my endurance, nor of any pride,
but be so engaged in relaxing discourse,
that e’en my enemies would rest with me,
and ne’er would come the crushing blow,
for that wounding of her dying breath,
the life she gave to me, I could not hold.
For she was that most elusive treasure,
the scent of a rose which stains the stars,
she could not bear flesh, nor borrow mine,
her nights were weakened by her days,
that she was but my sun drenched rose,
but she soon withered, too easily undone,
and all the gods who made her did mourn.
Here I cry, rose-stained flesh, fading,
stealing my breath of her final words,
left to this dry earth, she sleeps eternal,
with only a cold stone to bear her name,
and the construct of the love she gave,
which no death may take from my heart,
as her memory be my breath e’er long.