Passer Mortuus Est

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,

Now that love is perished?