Our tale is noble as it is tragic,
stern as the grimace of a tyrant.
No twist of fate, no fleeting chance,
no smallest detail can diminish
the greatness of our love.

And Thomas De Quincey,
drinking the sweet, chaste poison of opium,
kept dreaming of his poor Anne.

We pass away—for everything must pass.
Yet I shall return again and again.
Memories are hunting horns
whose echoes fade upon the wind.