Our story’s noble as its tragic <br />like the grimace of a tyrant <br />no drama’s chance or magic <br />no detail that’s indifferent <br />makes our great love pathetic <br />And Thomas de Quincey drinking <br />Opiate poison sweet and chaste <br />Of his poor Anne went dreaming <br />We pass we pass since all must pass <br />Often I’ll be returning <br />Memories are hunting horns alas <br />whose note along the wind is dying<br /><br />Guillaume Apollinaire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hunting-horns/
