Pleasure knows when it’s over,
Lying helpless on the bed.
But hate never ends,
So love tries that, instead.
On the brick walk, I reflected:
The simple, growing things endure.
But green pleasure has an end.
Pleasure will have an end, for sure.
In the end, rich and poor
Are the two things which mark us.
How much gold is in your pocket?
Can you take your lover to Italy?
If you can, take her for pleasure,
Not love. Love is fragile enough.
Then, after two weeks of bliss—
Sunsets in Venice, kiss after kiss—
When abruptly she says she doesn’t love you: you can laugh.
Pleasure can do nothing when it’s gone.
But watch out for love, which hates,
And takes revenge, to keep things going on.