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 hear no reply
And
in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For
unremembered men 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 it 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 sings in me no more.
Edna St. Vincent Millay