I dreamed I saw the grave of Ernest Dowson
Bleakly set
In some forgotten churchyard corner,
Lone and wet.
The spectral London fog descended cold on
Sentry grass
Where seldom any visitors or pilgrims
Deign to pass.
And in my reverie I bravely scattered
Roses there,
And felt a frail and wispy “Thank you”
Warm the air.
Categories:
dowson, dedication
Form: Verse
Ernest Dowson was a singer of the saddest, tritest tune,
Of the fawning, futile love that poets blame upon the moon,
And his lyrics all were painted on the margin of the page,
So his water-colored lines were barely noticed by his Age.
Wine-and-roses, and Cynara, floating lonesome in the air
Of the foggy yellow Nineties, in a Soho restaurant where
An Italian fickle waitress cracked a poet’s dream, yet made
His exquisite, fragile verses, faintly flower, not to fade.
Categories:
dowson, art
Form: Verse
Ernest Dowson was a singer of the saddest, tritest tune,
Of the fawning, futile love that poets blame upon the moon,
And his lyrics all were painted on the margin of the page,
So his water-colored lines were barely noticed by his Age.
Wine-and-roses, and Cynara, floating lonesome in the air
Of the foggy yellow Nineties, in a Soho restaurant where
An Italian fickle waitress cracked a poet’s dream, yet made
His exquisite, fragile verses, faintly flower, not to fade.
07-01-72
Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Regno Cynarae & Vitae Summa Brevis
Categories:
dowson, introspection, life, nostalgia, passion
Form: Verse