An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As when the old moon lighted by the tender / And radiant crescent of the new is seen, / And for a moment's space suggests the splendor / Of what in its full prime it once has been, / So on my waning years you cast the glory / Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour; / And life again seems like an unread story, / And joy and hope both stir me with their power.

Can blooming June be fond of bleak December? / I dare not wait to hear my heart reply. / I will forget the question -- and remember / Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye, / That radiant hair that flows across the pillows, / Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow; / Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows, / Whose dangers or delights but Love can know.

That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowed / The pattern for his bow, nor asked consent; / That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed -- / All these are mine; should I not be content? / Yet are these treasures mine, or only lent me? / And who shall claim them when I pass away? / Oh, jealous Fate, to torture and torment me / With thoughts like these in my too fleeting day!

For while I gained the prize which all were seeking, / And won you with the ardor of my quest, / The bitter truth I know without your speaking -- / _You only let me love you at the best_. / E'en while I lean and count my riches over, / And view with gloating eyes your priceless charms, / I know somewhere there dwells the unnamed lover / Who yet shall clasp you, willing, in his arms.

And while my hands stray through your clustering tresses, / And while my lips are pressed upon your own, / This unseen lover waits for such caresses / As my poor hungering clay has never known, / And when some day, between you and your duty / A green grave lies, his love shall make you glad, / And you shall crown him with your splendid beauty -- / Ah, God! ah, God! 'tis this way men go mad!