And hey, while we’re doing gloomy poems: Akhmatova:

The Last Toast

I drink to our ruined house,
to the dolor of my life,
to our loneliness together,
and to you I raise my glass,
to lying lips that have betrayed us,
to dead-cold, pitiless eyes,
and to the hard realities:
that the world is brutal and coarse,
that God in fact has not saved us.