Wish

Ah! the oaristyses! the earliest of our loves!

Hair all gold, azure eyes, flesh in bloom,

And then, amid young sweet bodies scenting the room,

The tremulous spontaneity of kissing doves!

How far they’ve fled, those joys as of happy cubs

And freely given! Alas! everything in the womb

Of that regretful Springtide now has fled the tomb

Of my annoy, of my distaste, of all my rubs!

Behold me now alone, drear and most alone,

Drear and desperate, who like a grandam moan,

Like unto an orphan no big sister cares for.

O woman loving cuddly to a heat that’s mild,

Gentle, thoughtful and dark, and never surprised therefore,

Who kisses you sometimes on your brow, just like a child!

Paul Verlaine