For forty years I shunned the lust
    Inherent in my clay;
Death only was so amorous
    I let him have his way.

This poem is in the public domain. 

What loin-cloth, what rag of wrong
Unpriced?
What turn of body, what of lust
Undiced?
So we’ve worshipped you a little
More than Christ.

This poem is in the public domain.