Beyond the pale of memory, <br />In some mysterious dusky grove; <br />A place of shadows utterly, <br />Where never coos the turtle-dove, <br />A world forgotten of the sun: <br />I dreamed we met when day was done, <br />And marvelled at our ancient love. <br /> <br />Met there by chance, long kept apart, <br />We wandered through the darkling glades; <br />And that old language of the heart <br />We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! <br />Over our pallid lips had run <br />The waters of oblivion, <br />Which crown all loves of men or maids. <br /> <br />In vain we stammered: from afar <br />Our old desire shone cold and dead: <br />That time was distant as a star, <br />When eyes were bright and lips were red. <br />And still we went with downcast eye <br />And no delight in being nigh, <br />Poor shadows most uncomforted. <br /> <br />Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, <br />Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, <br />But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers <br />That deck our little path of light: <br />For all too soon we twain shall tread <br />The bitter pastures of the dead: <br />Estranged, sad spectres of the night.<br /><br />Ernest Christopher Dowson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amor-profanus/
