Beyond

Love’s aftermath! I think the time is now
That we must gather in, alone, apart
The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,
Love’s aftermath.
Ah, sweet,—sweet yesterday, the tears that start
Can not put back the dial; this is, I throw,
Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart,
Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow
The twilight of poor love: we can but part,
Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,
Love’s aftermath.


Ernest Dowson