With apologies to Ernest Dowson

[marnanightingale]

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.