What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
This poem might make an interesting comparison with Yeats's "The Lamentation Of The Old Pensioner" (revised version)
