T.S. Eliot: Circe's Palace

Around her fountain which flows
With the voice of men in pain,
Are flowers that no man knows.
Their petals are fanged and red
With hideous streak and stain.
They sprang from the limbs of the dead.--
We shall not come here again.

Panthers rise from their lairs

In the forest which thickens below,

Along the garden stairs

The sluggish python lies;

The peacock's walk, stately and slow

And they look at us with the eyes

Of men whom we knew long ago.

Taken from http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/tseliot/works/poems/eliot-harvard-poems.html

Poetry

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,

(This is the end of every song man sings!)

The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,

Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;

And health and hope have gone the way of love

Into the drear oblivion of lost things,

Ghosts go along with us until the end;

This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.

With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait

For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:

This is the end of all the songs man sings.

Ernest Dowson

Dregs

1899

Picture taken from here: http://adalheit.deviantart.com/art/Face-au-vent-255445053