THE END.

By Ernest Christopher Dowson

Love's aftermath! I think the time is now

That we must gather in, alone, apart

The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,

Love's aftermath.

Ah, sweet,— sweet yesterday, the tears that start

Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow,

Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart,

Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow

The twilight of poor love: we can but part,

Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,

Love's aftermath.