  Upon the silence of my unconcern The little noise that was your name falls dead. I can remember how your mouth was red, In the lost years, but tho' the senses yearn For some unguessed desire, they never turn To that vitality, your face!—We sped So swiftly thro' our burning hour. We said Drink deep, 't will never end; too late we learn That lovely passion's face so soon is grey, That notes too often pressed upon grow dumb, That after the high climax crowns a day The dusk seems long and empty. We who come To taste again Life's feast, why must it be We meet such ghosts to chill our revelry? |
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