When you shall lie abandoned to that hour
Scrawled star-incised upon your horoscope,
Do not be comforted. Admit no hope
Warm-lipped upon your breasts, nor folded flower
From any south-turned slope.
I who have loved you leave against that sorrow
Words wise as crickets’, tenderer than a sword’s;
Lest you feast after at high-fruited boards,
And glut yourself with that always tomorrow
There is no man that hoards.
Be desperate in that hour. Lift up your heart
As any cup and drink it desolate—
A drained and ruinous vessel that no fate
Shall fill again in pity, and no art
Make brim quick-passionate.
Leave not one drop for the heart-broke artifice
Against the stricken years. You shall know now
The quiet breathing of the apple bough
Past blossoming, peace of the chrysalis,
The rain upon your brow.