Hunting-Horns

Our story is noble and tragic
Like a tyrant’s masque

No drama of chance or magick
No indifferent detail
Makes our love pathetic

And Thomas de Quincey imbibing

Opium sweet chaste poison
To his poor Anne went dreaming
Let’s go let’s go since everything goes
I shall turn back often

Memories are hunting-horns
Their bruitings die amid the wind

Guillaume Apollinaire