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 boughs¹ 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.