We have drained his lips at leisure,
⁠Till there’s not left to drain
A single sob of pleasure,
⁠A single pulse of pain.

Dream that the lips once breathless
⁠Might quicken if they would;
Say that the soul is deathless;
⁠Dream that the gods are good;
Say March may wed September,
⁠And time divorce regret;
But not that you remember,
⁠And not that I forget.

We have heard from hidden places
⁠What love scarce lives and hears:
We have seen on fervent faces
⁠The pallor of strange tears:
We have trod the wine-vat’s treasure,
⁠Whence, ripe to steam and stain,
Foams round the feet of pleasure
⁠The blood-red must of pain.

Remembrance may recover
⁠And time bring back to time
The name of your first lover,
⁠The ring of my first rhyme;
But rose-leaves of December
⁠The frosts of June shall fret,