Dregs
Ernest Dowson (1867-1900), English writer/poet

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into that drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropped curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings.

from The Le Gallienne Book of English Verse, Richard Le Gallienne (1866-1947), editor (1922)



courtesy of  vintagewinepoems.com