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peterdamianent1: Exile - Ernest Christopher Dowson By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers ways, I have but the shadow and imitation Of the old memorial days. In music I have no consolation, No roses are pale enough for me; The sound...

BoltonVictorian: Ernest Christopher Dowson (1867 – 1900) was an English poet, novelist, and short-story writer who is often associated with the Decadent movement. (Wiki) Richard Burton reads Ernest Dowson's poem 'Non sum qualis eram bonae sub...

Aaj_Pakistan: If we must part, Then let it be like this. Not heart on heart, Nor with the useless anguish of a kiss; But touch mine hand and say: "Until to-morrow or some other day, If we must part". Ernest Christopher Dowson

Ken97109552: "Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion . . ." - "Cynara" by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Faust89823700: And all her flower-like beauty, as a glass, Mirrors out hope and love Ernest Christopher Dowson

drewdog2060_: The Poet and the Prostitute (dedicated to Ernest Christopher Dowson)

YouAreTheExpert: The Poet and the Prostitute (dedicated to Ernest Christopher Dowson)

mhnrnsr: “I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion” —Ernest Christopher Dowson

keevah_simone: But once upon my pale eyes and my drowning hair, Before the great waves conquer in the last vain fight. - Ernest Christopher Dowson

mtnpoet: " Poem: Autumnal" by Ernest Christopher Dowson -

hibattyan: "We have walked in Love's land a little way, We have learnt his lesson a little while, And shall we not part at the end of day, With a sigh, a smile?" - "April love" by Ernest Christopher Dowson (1867-1900 /



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Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
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