How beautiful you look, my darling,

In whose glass I see the

Best parts of me.

Ah, to drink the image with a

Draught

And feel whole.

Now she’s practiced in the

Art of dying.

Less of her shall there be to be

Seen,

A wine of misery.

I love you in your old age,

To which I can never keep

Up

With drunken footsteps,

But now—in some stale present,

We have all outlived you.

Is this the parent living past the child?

Or is this

Merely some delirium?

I know not,

Only that I miss you.