Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson

* * *

A song of the setting sun!
The sky in the west is red,
And the day is all but done;
While yonder up overhead,
All too soon,
There rises so cold the cynic moon.

A Song of a Winter day!
The wind of the north doth blow,
From a sky that's chill and gray,
On fields where no crops now grow,
Fields long shorn
Of bearded barley and golden corn.

A song of a faded flower!
'Twas plucked in the tender bud,
And fair and fresh for an hour,
In a Lady's hair it stood,
Now, ah! now,
Faded it lies in the dust and low. 

1. Quid Non Supremus, Amantes?
2. Epigram
3. Vain Resolves
4. Villanelle of Marguerite's
5. Soli Cantare Periti Arcades

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