Five Poems of Ernest Dowson

What land of Silence,
  Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossom
  And dew-drenched vine,
  Is yours and mine?

The silent valley
  That we will find,
Where all the voices
  Of humankind
  Are left behind.

There all forgetting,
  Forgotten quite,
We will repose us,
  With our delight
  Hid out of sight.

The world forsaken,
  And out of mind
Honour and labour,
  We shall not find
  The stars unkind.

And men shall travail,
  And laugh and weep;
But we have vistas
  Of gods asleep,
With dreams as deep.

A land of Silence,
  Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossoms
  And dew-drenched vine,
Be yours and mine!

Oh, I would live in a dairy,
 And its Colin I would be,
And many a rustic fairy
 Should churn the milk with me.

Or the fields should be my pleasure,
 And my flocks should follow me,
Piping a frolic measure
 For Joan or Marjorie.

For the town is black and weary,
 And I hate the London street;
But the country ways are cheery,
 And country lanes are sweet.

Good luck to you, Paris ladies!
 Ye are over fine and nice,
I know where the country maid is,
 Who needs not asking twice.

Ye are brave in your silks and satins,
 As ye mince about the Town;
But her feet go free in pattens,
 If she wear a russet gown.

If she be not queen nor goddess
 She shall milk my brown-eyed herds,
And the breasts beneath her bodice
 Are whiter than her curds.

So I will live in a dairy,
 And its Colin I will be,
And its Joan that I will marry,
 Or, haply, Marjorie.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
  Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
  We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
  Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
  Within a dream.

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow. Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire;
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

"A little, passionately, not at all?"
She casts the snowy petals on the air:
And what care we how many petals fall!

Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall?
It is but playing, and she will not care,
A little, passionately, not at all!

She would not answer us if we should call
Across the years: her visions are too fair;
And what care we how many petals fall!

She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall
With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair,
A little, passionately, not at all!

Knee-deep she goes in meadow grasses tall,
Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear:
And what care we how many petals fall!

We pass and go: but she shall not recall
What men we were, nor all she made us bear:
"A little, passionately, not at all!"
And what care we how many petals fall!