Flesh that fears to grow old calls on the Devil
And asks him for consolation. The Devil listens
To the flesh's thousand forms of past energy
The flesh smiles again, in the vain hope
Of feeling forever that which was the grace
Of love in flower in flowing blessedness.
But hellish gifts are a new suffering
To the shamed defenseless flesh
And nothing is satisfied and a fragrance scatters
From flowers withered in horror.