I believe the poem is by Yeats. The basic gist is, just because a love died doesn't mean it never lived... A sentiment that I've been coming back to rather unfortunately often of late. I'd really like to find the full text. I remember the title was not English... French I think... Anyone?

TIA Glenn

-- Glenn Hughes (box_publique@nullpointer.com), February 25, 2000

Answers

Passer Mortuus Est" Death devours all lovely things: Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness, - presently Every bed is narrow. Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation; And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished? -Edna St. Vincent Millay

-- ilza (ilza@pobox.com), December 26, 2000.