Ernest Dowson was a singer of the saddest, tritest tune,
Of the fawning, futile love that poets blame upon the moon,
And his lyrics all were painted on the margin of the page,
So his water-colored lines were barely noticed by his Age.
Wine-and-roses, and Cynara, floating lonesome in the air
Of the foggy yellow Nineties, in a Soho restaurant where
An Italian fickle waitress cracked a poet’s dream, yet made
His exquisite, fragile verses, faintly flower, not to fade.
Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Regno Cynarae & Vitae Summa Brevis