She said, “I want to live no matter what
The penalty, give me on earth the lot
I most desire.
Let me drink deep of love, of joy, of life.
Scatter the roses, let the wine run rife
Dear Gods above, and then let fall the knife
I will expire.”
The Gods smiled sadly, very well they knew
Her ardent spirit could ascend the blue,
And force their will.
Such weak old Deities these latter days
Could but comply to her imperious ways.
With woeful doubts they showed the flowery maze
Of rapturous ill.
And she was happy: with that hot content
That burns away the flesh, that ravishment
Of youth grown bold.
Until one morn the roses of her bed
Were turned to nettles, all the joy was dead,
The passion cold.
She cried, “Now let me die, to live a day
Were Purgatory. See the awful way
I gaze upon.”
The Gods were silent; powerless to avert
The consequence, grown wearily inert.
So — she lived on.