Ernest Christopher Dowson Poems

When this, our rose, is faded,
And these, our days, are done,
In lands profoundly shaded
From tempest and from sun:
...

Into the lonely park all frozen fast,
Awhile ago there were two forms who passed.
...

Shall one be sorrowful because of love,
Which hath no earthly crown,
Which lives and dies, unknown?
Because no words of his shall ever move
...

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
...

You would have understood me, had you waited;
I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:
Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated
...

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
...

Without, the sullen noises of the street!
The voice of London, inarticulate,
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet
...

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
...

Around were all the roses red,
The ivy all around was black.
...

Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the
sun-stained air,
...