Passer Mortuus Est

Death devours all lovely things;
    Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness,--presently
    Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain
    Dries the sheer libation,
And the little petulant hand
    Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,
    My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
    Now that love is perished?