Immoderation
The frantic thrusts of lust’s long loin
Engender ill-considered fruits.
If we took thought to preconceive
The outcome of precipitance
We might become more temperate
And chaste in what we do inside
The darkened chambers of our minds
Behind the curtained eyes of haste.
Passion is honourable when
It cedes to decency’s demurs;
But when it forcibly insists
Incontinently to intrude,
Or have its way without restraint,
Upon its object of desire –
Like some wild-rutting animal –
The fathered offspring, raging hate,
Will chase the shameful author of its wrath
Till it achieves a vengeful aftermath.
