The other day I found this poem, on a scrap of paper, in a novel. It was my handwriting, but I can’t remember copying it out. I Googled for the poet – it is Ernest Dowson.
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter
Love and desire and hate
I think they will 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.
