Catcher of Birds

She was insanely lovely to behold —
She crossed the earth with unsteady grace,
And tempting fate with games both fierce and bold,
Enchanted every eye with her sly face.
In moir; silk and stockings rosy-bright,
She always seemed delightfully unwise;
No timid shame would dim her splendid light
Whenever freedom shimmered in her eyes.
Within the whirl of fleeting rendezvous
No flame of passion ever knew restraint,
For even fear itself could not subdue
Love’s burning fever, reckless and unfeigned.

— And I, Immoralist and catcher of birds,
Like some lone prisoner in an ivory tower,
Am chained forever to confessional words
And smolder on in bitterness each hour,
Until at last my destined turn shall come
To seize the sparks of fleeting passion’s blaze,
And I as well will speak, no longer dumb,
Those well-rehearsed and carefully crafted phrase.
And I will wait, whatever fate may weave,
Until love’s hunger withers into dust,
Until so few are left who still believe
In something more than momentary lust.