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 the 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 dropt curtain and the closing gate: This is the end of all the songs man sings. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A SUBTERRANEAN CITY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES HOLY THURSDAY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND by PHILIP FRENEAU ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA (THE SEVENTEENTH - THE FINEST REGIMENTAL BAND) by WALT WHITMAN DEATH AND THE LADY; THEIR BARGAIN TOLD AGAIN by LEONIE ADAMS BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE by MATTHEW ARNOLD |