With apologies to Ernest Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Canon! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Canon! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Canon! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Canon! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Canon! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Canon! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Canon! in my fashion.

And really, what else is there to say about that?

Except that ultimately, where it comes to canon, how close I stick to it ...
really depends upon its calibre.

For the flickering candle and the hand outstretched in love ...

We know without knowing there is reason for what we bear,
That our hurt is not a desertion, that we are to pity
Neither ourselves or our city;
Whoever the searchlights catch,
Whatever the loudspeakers blare,
We are not to despair.

The Fires Of Calais

Lyrics here