MY DAYS, MY MONTHS, MY YEARS

by: John Attey

      Y days, my months, my years
      I spend about a moment's gain,
      A joy that in th' enjoying ends,
      A fury quickly slain;
       
      A frail delight, like that wasp's life
      Which now both frisks and flies,
      And in a moment's wanton strife
      It faints, it pants, it dies.
       
      And when I charge, my lance in rest,
      I triumph in delight,
      And when I have the ring transpierced
      I languish in despite;
       
      Or like one in a lukewarm bath,
      Light-wounded in a vein,
      Spurts out the spirits of his life
      And fainteth without pain.

"My Days, My Months, My Years" is reprinted from Poetica Erotica. T.R. Smith. New York: Crown Publishers, 1921.

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