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A poem

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 a reply,

For unremembered ladies that not again

Will turn to me with a cry.

Thus is the winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one bu 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.

 

Millay  1892-1950


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