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 the 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.