by Luis G. Dato

Ah, call it foolishness, a dotard’s whim,
Some lunar fancy of one getting old,
Deem it base metal and not burnished gold,
Or paroxysm of the mind grown dim.
True, ‘tis beyond our depth, well past the rim
Of what men prudence call, for it is bold
Though natural to love what you behold,
And eyes stop not with sight. Look then at him

As no more fool than others, rather give
Some due allowance, for in many things,
‘Tis best be open, and to live, let live.
What’s sin? what’s virtue? Hope eternal springs,
And Jesus Magdalene could still forgive,
And Sarah, sinner, gave Judea kings.

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