Upon the silence of my unconcern
The little noise that was your name falls dead.
I can remember how your mouth was red,
In the lost years, but tho’ the senses yearn
For some unguessed desire, they never turn
To that vitality, your face!— We sped
So swiftly thro’ our burning hour. We said
Drink deep,‘ t will never end; too late we learn
That lovely passion's face so soon is grey,
That notes too often pressed upon grow dumb,
That after the high climax crowns a day
The dusk seems long and empty. We who come
To taste again Life's feast, why must it be
We meet such ghosts to chill our revelry?