Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsDregs
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
Dregs Post by :Javier Category :Poems Author :Ernest Dowson Date :October 2011 Read :3233

Click below to download : Dregs (Format : PDF)


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.

(The end)
Ernest Dowson's poem: Dregs

If you like this book please share to your friends :

The First Guest The First Guest

The First Guest
When the house is finished, Death enters.Eastern ProverbLife's House being ready all,Each chamber fair and dumb,Ere life, the Lord, is comeWith pomp into his hall,--Ere Toil has trod the floors,Ere Love has lit the fires,Or young great-eyed DesiresHave, timid, tried the doors;Or from east-window leanedOne Hope, to greet the sun,Or one gray Sorrow screenedHer sight against the west,--Then enters the first guest,The House of life being done.He waits there in the shade.I deem he is Life's twin,For whom the house was made.Whatever his true name,Be sure, to enter inHe has both key and claim.The daybeams, free of fear,Creep drowsy toward his

The Ride To The Lady The Ride To The Lady

The Ride To The Lady
"Now since mine even is come at last,--For I have been the sport of steel,And hot life ebbeth from me fast,And I in saddle roll and reel,--Come bind me, bind me on my steed!Of fingering leech I have no need!"The chaplain clasped his mailed knee."Nor need I more thy whine and thee!No time is left my sins to tell;But look ye bind me, bind me well!"They bound him strong with leathern thong,For the ride to the lady should be long.Day was dying; the poplars fled,Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,And made the streams