Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam

(The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long - Horace)

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

Ernest Dowson

Exchanges

ALL that I had I brought,

Little enough I know;

A poor rhyme roughly wrought,

A rose to match thy snow:

All that I had I brought.

Little enough I sought:

But a word compassionate,

A passing glance, or thought,

For me outside the gate:

Little enough I sought.

Little enough I found:

All that you had, perchance!

With the dead leaves on the ground,

I dance the devil's dance.

All that you had I found.

Ernest Dowson

Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae

(I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara - Horace)

LAST night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine

There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed

Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,

Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;

Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:

I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,

Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,

Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson

To One in Bedlam

(For Henry Davray)

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,

Pedant and pityful. O, how his rapt gaze wars

With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine

Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,

And make his melancholy germane to the stars?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,

Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;

Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,

All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,

Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,

The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivous hours!

Ernest Dowson

Spleen

(For Arthur Symons)

I WAS not sorrowful, I could not weep,

And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange,

All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain

Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired

Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me

The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became

Oblivion, until the evening came,

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,

With all my memories that could not sleep.

Ernest Dowson

This Libation, Cupid, Take

THIS libation, Cupid, take,

With the lilies at thy feet;

Cherish Pierrot for their sake

Send him visions strange and sweet,

While he slumbers at thy feet.

Only love kiss him awake!

Only love kiss him awake!

Ernest Dowson

Who Is This Mortal

WHO is this mortal

Who ventures to-night

To woo an immortal,

Cold, cold the moon's light

For sleep at this portal,

Bold lover of night.

Fair is the mortal

In soft, silken white,

Who seeks an immortal.

Ah, lover of night,

Be warned at the portal,

And save thee in flight!

Ernest Dowson

What Is Love?

WHAT is Love?

Is it a folly,

Is it mirth, or melancholy?

Joys above,

Are there many, or not any?

What is Love?

If you please,

A most sweet folly!

Full of mirth and melancholy:

Both of these!

In its sadness worth all gladness,

If you please!

Prithee where,

Goes Love a-hiding?

Is he long in his abiding

Anywhere?

Can you bind him when you find him;

Prithee, where?

With spring days

Love comes and dallies:

Upon the mountains, through the valleys

Lie Love's ways.

Then he leaves you and deceives you

In spring days.

Ernest Dowson

The Moon Maiden's Song

SLEEP! Cast thy canopy

Over this sleeper's brain,

Dim grow his memory,

When he wake again.

Love stays a summer night,

Till lights of morning come;

Then takes her winged flight

Back to her starry home.

Sleep! Yet thy days are mine;

Love's seal is over thee:

Far though my ways from thine,

Dim though thy memory.

Love stays a summer night,

Till lights of morning come;

Then takes her winged flight

Back to her starry home.

Ernest Dowson

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,

Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,

     Love's aftermath.

Ernest Dowson

Villanelle of the Poet's Road

WINE and woman and song,

Three things garnish our way:

Yet is day over long.

Lest we do our youth wrong,

Gather them while we may:

Wine and woman and song.

Three things render us strong,

Vine leaves, kisses and bay;

Yet is day over long.

Unto us they belong,

Us the bitter and gay,

Wine and woman and song.

We, as we pass along,

Are sad that they will not stay;

Yet is day over long.

Fruits and flowers among,

What is better than they:

Wine and woman and song?

Yet is day over long.

Ernest Dowson

Jadis

EREWHILE, before the world was old,

When violets grew and celandine,

In Cupid's train we were enrolled:

     Erewhile!

Your little hands were clasped in mine,

Your head all ruddy and sun-gold

Lay on my breast which was your shrine,

And all the tale of love was told:

Ah, God, that sweet things should decline,

And fires fade out which were not cold,

     Erewhile.

Ernest Dowson

Chanson Sans Paroles

IN the deep violet air,

Not a leaf is stirred;

There is no sound heard,

But afar, the rare

Trilled voice of a bird.

Is the wood's dim heart,

And the fragrant pine,

Incense, and a shrine

Of her coming. Apart,

I wait for a sign.

What the sudden hush said,

She will hear, and forsake,

Swift, for my sake,

Her green, grassy bed:

She will hear and awake!

She will hearken and glide,

From her place of deep rest,

Dove-eyed, with the breast

Of a dove, to my side:

The pines bow their crest.

I wait for a sign:

The leaves to be waved,

The tall tree-tops laved

In a flood of sunshine,

This world to be saved!

In the deep violet air,

Not a leaf is stirred;

There is no sound heard,

But afar, the rare

Trilled voice of a bird.

Ernest Dowson

A Last Word

LET us go hence: the night is now at hand;

The day is overworn, the birds all flown;

And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;

Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,

Broods like an owl; we cannot understand

Laughter or tears, for we have only known

Surpassing vanity: vain things alone

Have driven our perverse and aimless band.

Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,

To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust

Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,

Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.

Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold

Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

Ernest Dowson