PASSER MORTUUS EST

by


     Death devours all lovely things;
       Lesbia with her sparrow
     Shares the darkness,—presently
       Every bed is narrow.

     Unremembered as old rain
       Dries the sheer libation,
     And the little petulant hand
       Is an annotation.

     After all, my erstwhile dear,
       My no longer cherished,
     Need we say it was not love,
       Now that love is perished?


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