Growing Old This little poem, improbably ascribed to various poets, is the perfection of the “functional” type of poetry. A poem could hardly be more démeublé than this. Woman full of wile Take your hand away, Nothing tempts me now, Sick for love you pray. But my hair is grey And my flesh is weak, All my blood gone cold— What is it you seek? Do not think me mad, Do not hang your head, Slender witch let love Live in thought not deed. Take your mouth from mine, Kissing’s bitterer still, Flesh from flesh must part Lest of warmth come will. Your twined branching hair, Your grey eye dew-bright, Your rich rounded breast Turn to lust the sight. But for the wild bed And the body’s flame, Woman full of wile My love is still the same. Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.60