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.
More verses by Ernest Christopher Dowson
- If We Must Part
- O Mors! Quam Amara Est Memoria Tua Homini Pacem Habenti In Substantiis Suis
- What Is Love?
- Ad Domnulam Suam
- A Requiem