Tempus Edax Rerum by Helen Hay Whitney — Read

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?