*by Edna St. Vincent Millay* >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.