I carry the Sun in a Golden Cup, the Moon in a Silver Bag.
Labour is blossoming or dancing whereThe body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
How far away the stars seem, and how farIs our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!
I spit into the face of Time That has transfigured me.
The Scholars”Bald heads forgetful of their sins,Old, learned, respectable bald headsEdit and annotate the linesThat young men, tossing on their beds,Rhymed out in love’s despairTo flatter beauty’s ignorant ear.They’ll cough in the ink to the...