POEMS
I do not want to go out every night,
And be bright and vivid and intense,
Nor be on the alert and the defence
With other women, fierce and afraid as I,
Drawing a knife unseen as each goes by.
And be bright and vivid and intense,
Nor be on the alert and the defence
With other women, fierce and afraid as I,
Drawing a knife unseen as each goes by.
I am so tired of men and making love,
For every one's the same.
There's nothing new in love beneath the sun;
All love can say or do has long been said and done:
I have eaten the fruit of knowledge long enough,
Been over-kissed, over-praised and over-won.
Why should I try to play still the old, foolish game?
Because I have played the rose's part too long.
Who plays the rose must pay the rose's price,
And be a rose or nothing till it dies.
And even then sometimes the blood will answer fierce and strong
To the old hunger, to the old dance, old tune;
I shall feel cruel and passionate and mad
Though I have lost the look of June.
The fever of the past will burn my hands
As men who live long in intemperate lands
Feel the old ague wring them, far removed
From the old dreadful glitter of seas and sands.
For every one's the same.
There's nothing new in love beneath the sun;
All love can say or do has long been said and done:
I have eaten the fruit of knowledge long enough,
Been over-kissed, over-praised and over-won.
Why should I try to play still the old, foolish game?
Because I have played the rose's part too long.
Who plays the rose must pay the rose's price,
And be a rose or nothing till it dies.
And even then sometimes the blood will answer fierce and strong
To the old hunger, to the old dance, old tune;
I shall feel cruel and passionate and mad
Though I have lost the look of June.
The fever of the past will burn my hands
As men who live long in intemperate lands
Feel the old ague wring them, far removed
From the old dreadful glitter of seas and sands.
11
