Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Surviving Sense
THE SURVIVING SENSE
The rapture is over,
The passion for pressure is spent,
And, lover by lover,
We lie in a languid content;
Still warmed by our flame’s afterglow
We speak not, but take
One soft kiss now and then just to show
That we still are awake.
In the weak wind the curtain
Stirs faintly, the light of the fire
Flickers pale and uncertain
Like the last of our sated desire;
Here as our souls sink and fall
Into cavernous sleep,
Do you think, as I think, of it all,
What we lose, what we keep?
When of all this fierce splendour
Of lust are our bodies bereft,
When these limbs strong and tender
Have no power or grace in them left,
When we have outlived and outworn
The delights of the flesh,
We shall smile at this past—not in scorn—
If we keep our hearts fresh.