Passing of the Season

What man of passion doesn't in his heart
Raise up in fervid, youthful adoration
His love until she shimmers with the art
Of angel, siren, goddess, and her station
Becomes that of an empress? She is mother
To all his hopes and passions and he turns
In reverent orbit round her whims, all other
Desires dimmed or blackened as he burns.
Like melting wax in haste, time falls from him,
And with it the fever of his once-bright flame:
His looks, his words no longer seem to brim
With gold and honey. Shall it be the same
For every man and woman, this damp gloom
That closes on the spirit like the tomb?

George Chadderdon © 2001