They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
—Ernest Christopher Dowson (1867–1900)
For birth was a disease and christopher and I invented the cure.
—Anne Sexton (1928–1974)
Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
—Ernest Christopher Dowson (1867–1900)