Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pen and paper

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,
Just because it perished?