Prothalamion

LET the love torches shake their yellow hair
Loose on the night, while the moon like a moth
Dances the dance of death and everywhere
Stars drop and bubble in a fiery broth!
Is this not sweeter than to eke love out
Miserably like alms, as though love were
Doled from a bag to every vulgar lout
Or ticketed to every pensioner?
Heap silver baskets! Let no torch relax
Its lustre! Fill the gaudy flagons deep!
Time like a headsman leans upon his axe;
He has another crimson tryst to keep:
No nodding now, for when the headsman hacks
There will be time, and time to spare, for sleep.