Classic Poem

Here's Spring come again, the old harlot —
Back to her haunts again;
And the blood of the world runs scarlet
With the harsh desire, the shattering pain.
Yet — here are the same old tricks:
The smile and the side-long glances,
The stale and hackneyed romances,
The magics that do not mix. . .
The same, old stock in trade —
The blushes and airs of a maid
That flies from a bashful pursuer,
While she herself is the wooer
That will be obeyed!

Tripping the tawdry measure,
Singing her worn-out song;
She accosts you with tales of her treasure;
Glib patter of love and of pleasure;
And you, you are carried along...
But look at the paint on her cheeks,
It is thick with thousands of years;
And notice her voice as she speaks,
It is trembling with age, not her tears.
She is old, lad, believe, she is old —
She is hardened and bitter and cold;
A wanton that has no more fire in her soul
Than a burnt bit of coal;
A vampire that sends the blood coursing, and then
Sucks out the spirits of men.

But the fool is still flattered and blinded,
And the poet still babbles of bliss;
And even the wise and the sensible-minded
Are bewitched by her kiss.
And, though she is old as the Winter,
And her insolent beauty is shed,
They will clasp her and rhyme her and tint her
Till the last of her lovers is dead!