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.