Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae

Ernest Dowson

(1867 – 1900)

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,

Yea, I was desolate and bow'd by head:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.

 

All night upon my heart I felt her warm heart beat,

Night-long within my arms in love and sleep she lay;

Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:

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,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.

 

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finish'd and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara. The night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.