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.