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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=390110" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dregs</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=390110" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,<br>(This is the end of every song man sings!)<br>The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,<br>Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;<br>And health and hope have gone the way of love<br>Into the drear oblivion of lost things.<br>Ghosts go along with us until the end;<br>This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.<br>With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait<br>For the dropped curtain and the closing gate:<br>This is the end of all the songs man sings.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Ernest+Christopher+Dowson">Ernest Christopher Dowson</a></strong></div>

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