Sinking into bliss.
A kiss.
A silver penny
So many
Shine
On women and wine.
As Dowson searches, for love divine.

Pale lost lilies.
Sillies
Weak
No words they speak
Will make him cease
In his search for peace.

Dowson died young.
No joy his lovings brung.
The same old song sung
Once more.
The hoare
Frost froze the poet, to the core.

—

Ernest Christopher Dowson was one of the Decadent or Catholic poets. Born in 1867 and dying in 1900 the poet spent a life full of wine, women and song, often seeking solace in the arms of the world’s oldest profession.
The reference to “Lilies” refers to Dowson’s fine poem, “Cynara” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Dowson).

The dress she bought
Was cheap and short.
The bus she caught.
The vehicle’s slow pace
Her burning face.
Barely coping.
For salvation hoping.
Groping
For a way out.
Inwardly she shouts.
People are about
Staring
She is almost beyond caring.
A suburban place
His flushed face.
A girl’s disgrace.
How very common place.

Sometimes the air is so pure
And beauty’s store
Becomes too much.
At such
Moments the heart is full
And a dull
Ache
Will not me forsake.

Tears fall on the tranquil lake.
The sun awakes.
I will go
And see the rainbow
Shine
And ponder on what some call nature
And others the divine.