A fire inhuman, yet in human lit,
Blazing with coarse affections, sears the skin
And double-thrums the heart, who’s wander’ng wit
Steers us toward the precipice of sin;
Where winds of bliss obscure the coals of hate
And roar to tempest, sweating bitter rain,
That would be tears if knowledge met with fate
And showed that every joy is bought with pain.
Thus, once the squall subsides, our spirit, doused,
Whimpering at the embers of our heart
That shone so brightly while our limbs caroused,
Dissolves as, from the body, passions part.
Such is the curse of all whom lust possessed:
To rise and fall and never be at rest.

***

If...