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'Tis no low-born material flame,
Fanned by the breath of lustful men,
That flickers fiercely first, then tame,
Then fiercely once again, and then
Dies down into grey embers, cold
Because this life seems growing old!
Nay, let our love, Sweet, vanquish Time,
Cast out all fear, forget the past
And its attendant ills—sublime
Stretches the future's vista—vast
Potentialities therein,
To love is surely not a sin!
'Tis far more sinful, Sweet, to me,
To yield yourself up to abuse
Of lust in guise of love, than be
Freely beloved. That man's vile use,
Though sanctioned by our social creed,
Has left your body poor indeed.
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