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?

Alternative closing line given by

some sources:

Now that love is perished?