Passer Mortuus Est

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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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?

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