Robert Paine Scripps

LOOK you—the flesh, how it has fallen away,

And that dear beauty of my youth! The lips

You loved to press—they are grown cold enough

With years; and this poor heart that beat so high—

God!—it is like a stone within my breast.

I will sit down where the old women sit

And pound the Awa with these withered hands.

I will chew beetle till my teeth are black—

That were like little pearls, you said—and spit

With them. My tongue shall be a wagging tongue

For old wives’ tales, and I shall learn to laugh

At the low things they whisper, leering still

Half foolishly, scratching their shrivelled thighs,

And trying to recall passion that’s dead—

Oh, many a weary day.
So our lives run

When that first stroke is spent that drove the barque

Against an ebbing tide. We drift, we fade

Like Kepi blossoms drooping in the sun,

That the night knew for fragrance.