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 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．