Our story’s noble as its tragic br like the grimace of a tyrant br no drama’s chance or magic br no detail that’s indifferent br makes our great love pathetic br And Thomas de Quincey drinking br Opiate poison sweet and chaste br Of his poor Anne went dreaming br We pass we pass since all must pass br Often I’ll be returning br Memories are hunting horns alas br whose note along the wind is dyingbr br Guillaume Apollinairebr br