Thorns

Thorns

I scrub and scrub and yet the port-wine stain gets larger and larger

Out, damned spot! And still it grows.

No matter, I never liked Shakesphere anyway.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter

Love and desire and hate;

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses…

Now, Ernest Dowson I see, I feel,  in all his tragic  and beautiful woundedness.