Classic Poem

Let not the jesting bitter gods
Who sit so goldenly aloof from us
Mock us too deeply,
Let them not boast they hold alone
The reins of pleasure, the delight of lust—
We also, we that are but air and dust,
Moistening that dust a little with old wine
And kindling that air with fire of love
Have burned an hour or two with blossoming pangs,
And, leaning on soft breasts made keen with love
And murmuring fierce words of rending bliss,
Have gathered turn by turn unto our lips
The twin wild roses of delight,
The quick flower-flames that sear into the soul
Sharp wounds of pleasure and extreme desire.