Ernest Christopher Dowson

(2 August 1867 – 23 February 1900 / London / England)

Ernest Christopher Dowson Poems

1. Terre Promise 4/19/2010
2. Saint Germain-En-Laye 4/19/2010
3. To His Mistress 4/19/2010
4. Vanitas 4/19/2010
5. Seraphita 4/19/2010
6. The Dead Child 4/19/2010
7. Quid Non Supremus, Amantes? 4/19/2010
8. Flos Lunae 4/19/2010
9. Moritura 4/19/2010
10. Transition 4/19/2010
11. Venite Descendamus 4/19/2010
12. In Spring 4/19/2010
13. Soli Cantare Periti Arcades 4/19/2010
14. Villanelle Of Marguerite's 4/19/2010
15. To William Theodore Peters On His Renaissance Cloak 4/19/2010
16. To A Lost Love 4/19/2010
17. Extreme Unction 4/19/2010
18. My Lady April 4/19/2010
19. Sapientia Lunae 4/19/2010
20. Rondeau 4/19/2010
21. Villanelle Of Acheron 4/19/2010
22. The Sea-Change 4/19/2010
23. Villanelle Of His Lady’s Treasures 4/19/2010
24. Exile 4/19/2010
25. Impentitent Ultima 4/19/2010
26. Libera Me 4/19/2010
27. Vain Hope 4/19/2010
28. The Three Witches 4/19/2010
29. Villanelle Of Sunset 4/19/2010
30. Vesperal 4/19/2010
31. To A Lady Asking Foolish Questions 4/19/2010
32. On The Birth Of A Friend's Child 4/19/2010
33. To One In Bedlam 12/31/2002
34. Villanelle 1/3/2003
35. A Valediction 4/19/2010
36. Carthusians 4/19/2010
37. Breton Afternoon 4/19/2010
38. After Paul Verlaine-Iii 4/19/2010
39. Dregs 4/19/2010
40. Benedictio Domini 4/19/2010
Best Poem of Ernest Christopher Dowson

April Love

We have walked in Love's land a little way,
We have learnt his lesson a little while,
And shall we not part at the end of day,
With a sigh, a smile?

A little while in the shine of the sun,
We were twined together, joined lips forgot
How the shadows fall when day is done,
And when Love is not.

We have made no vows - there will none be broke,
Our love was free as the wind on the hill,
There was no word said we need wish unspoke,
We have wrought no ill.

So shall we not part at the end of day,
Who have loved and lingered a little while,
Join ...

Read the full of April Love

Beyond

Love's aftermath! I think the time is now
That we must gather in, alone, apart
The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,
Love's aftermath.
Ah, sweet,--sweet yesterday, the tears that start
Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow,
Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart,
Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow
The twilight of poor love: we can but part,

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