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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