I am not of those miserable males <br /> Who sniff at vice and, daring not to snap, <br /> Do therefore hope for heaven. I take the hap <br /> Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails <br /> Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked, <br /> I know the devil has sufficient weight <br /> To bear: I lay it not on him, or fate. <br /> Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect <br /> A coward, who would burden the poor deuce <br /> With what ensues from his own slipperiness. <br /> I have just found a wanton-scented tress <br /> In an old desk, dusty for lack of use. <br /> Of days and nights it is demonstrative, <br /> That, like some aged star, gleam luridly. <br /> If for those times I must ask charity, <br /> Have I not any charity to give?<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-xx/
