Places That Are Empty Of You Are

I Have Been Here Before, But When Or How I Cannot Tell: I Know The Grass Beyond The Door, The Sweet Keen Smell, The Sighing Sound, The Lights Around The Shore. ... You Have Been Mine Before, How Long Ago I May Not Know: But Just When At That Swallow's Soar Your Neck Turned So, Some Veil Did Fall - I Knew It All Of Yore. Has This Been Thus Before? And Shall Not Thus Time's Eddying Flight Still With Our Lives Our Love Restore In Death's Despite, And Day And Night Yield One Delight Once More

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Look In My Face; My Name Is Might-have-been; I Am Also Call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell.