The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof 

This is the end of every song man sings 

The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain : 

Bitter as warmwood, and as salt as pain 

And hope health have gone the way of love 

Into the drear oblivion of lost things 

Ghosts go along with us until the end: 

This was a mistress; this, perhaps, a friend... 

With pale, indifferent eyes we sit and wait 

For the dropt curtain and the closing gate 

This is the end of every song man sings

James Elroy Flecker