My fantasy is proud and plain:

To grasp the crop, leap the stirrup,

Outrace sluggish time,

And always kiss fresh lips;

And in old age before Christ’s grace,

With ash on head and eyes cast down

Breast burdened by an iron cross,

At last to take salvation’s burden.

For only then, released from orgy,

Like sleepwalkers, night done,

Scared white by a silent stalker,

Might wake, so I recall this paltry atom

Had neither child from any woman

Nor help from any human brother.