Sometimes I find
Myself wondering, as heels pass
“Who is that lass?
Is she young or old?
And what colour are her eyes?”
On occasions perfume, as of a flower
My senses, and I construct castles in the air
Wherein I while away many an hour
Thinking on the tender flower
Where other bees than me
How the senses can deceive.
The girl I perceive
As being in the flush of youth
Is, in truth
(I blush) To admit it, sometimes a lady of mature years
Who has, perchance shed many tears
Over lovers past
And, by heavens no young lass!
And lustful, as any sighted male