Death devours all lovely things: 
   Lesbia with her sparrow 
Shares the darkness, -- presently 
   Every bed is narrow. 

Unremembered as old rain 
   Dries the sheer libation; 
And the little petulant hand 
   Is an annotation. 

After all, my erstwhile dear, 
   My no longer cherished, 
Need we say it was not love, 
   Just because it perished?

(from Second April, 1921)

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