As I have grown older, the scales have dropped
from my eyes; lust, like some bright-eyed hawk
perched in the shade of my dark eyelashes, upped
and disappeared; a dove there lurks. I talk
to the prettiest girls, and not feel a beau,
their glances show no reflected ardor
that makes them plain in turn, ourselves we show
in wholesome light; an unassuming candor
I wish had been mine that consumed in passion's
flame, those years ago, had me deaf and dumb
and blinded by desire; styles and fashions,
every trick I knew, to her a prize become.
Was it then all illusion time has drained
to the mere casual exchange with her now? -
Not so: what surface lost, the depths have gained,
and as we each would be to know somehow.
