Stones from The Quarry | ||
229
PLEASURE-HUNTERS.
Ye butterflies! for ever on the wing,That flutter up and down, now here, now there,
Stern Time shall brush ye off into the glare
Of fierce consuming truth, and to nought bring;
Like moths, when housewives in the fire fling
Moth-eaten finery! your idol fair,
This “Pleasure,” her own votaries will not spare,
But at last, “like snake i' the bosom,” sting.
Ye sweat hard after her, yet seldom see
More than her disappearing skirts, the trail
Of disappointment or satietie.
While in Toil's strong embrace, ere they grow stale,
She yields her virgin-charms up, proud as he
Of vigorous issue, like their parents, hale!
Stones from The Quarry | ||