Less and less do the randy boys come rattling
your shut window now with their plaintive pebbles,
nor for that matter trouble your sleep. Your door now
clamps at the threshold
where it once so easily opened up on
supple hinges. Less and less do you hear now:
“Night on night, I die for you, darling. How can
you keep on sleeping?”
Soon your age will come. For old, puffy lechers
you will weep alone on the lonely curb, whilst
harder winds are teased by the dark new moon of
Thrace on the mountains.
Then you'll feel: A lover’s old lust shall sear you,
that untamed libido, deranging horses,
raging in the crux of your riddled loins,
while you go weeping
for how boys would rather enjoy the greener
growth of ivy now and the darker myrtle,
tossing lifeless leaves to the gods of winter-
-wind on the mountain.