what lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain under my head until morning; but the rain is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh upon the glass and listen for reply, and in my heart 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.