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I had never heard of Dowson, til a cryptic allusion in Saul Bellow's "Mr. Sammler's Planet" spoke of "fidelity in Cynara-Dowson fashion". A few Googles later, and I discovered Ernest Dowson and his romantic/tragic poetry. Now I've put Bellow aside for a few minutes to immerse myself in Dowson.
It's amazing that Dowson died so young (35, I believe). Here I am at 68, finding this poetry which speaks so knowingly of young love fading, fading, til perhaps only pity is finally left. On second thought, though, perhaps Dowson was wrong. It's love-as-lust that fades til it be best forgotten. Other forms of love grow rather than fade...until Alzheimers wipes all away.
Why did I not hear of Ernest Dowson when I took that Romantic Poets course at Yale?
Stan from United States