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 warmwood, and as salt as pain

And hope health 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 every song man sings

James Elroy Flecker