Exile

by Ernest Christopher Dowson

By the sad waters of separation

Where we have wandered by divers ways,

I have but the shadow and imitation

Of the old memorial days.

In music I have no consolation,

No roses are pale enough for me;

The sound of the waters of separation

Surpasseth roses and melody.

By the sad waters of separation

Dimly I hear from an hidden place

The sigh of mine ancient adoration:

Hardly can I remember your face.

If you be dead, no proclamation

Sprang to me over the waste, gray sea:

Living, the waters of separation

Sever for ever your soul from me.

No man knoweth our desolation;

Memory pales of the old delight

While the sad waters of separation

Bear us on to the ultimate night.