You Are Loved. If So, What Else

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.

The Longest Absence Is Less Perilous To Love Than The Terrible Trials Of Incessant Proximity.

... But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight

You Wrote Me A Beautiful Letter, I Wonder If You Meant It To Be As Beautiful As It Was. I Think You Did; For Somehow I Know That Your Feeling For Me, However Slight It Is, Is Of The Nature Of Love... When You Tell Me To Come, I Will Come, By The Next Train, Just As I Am. This Is Not Meekness, Be Assured; I Do Not Come Naturally By Meekness; Know That It Is A Proud Surrender To You.

To Be Grown Up Is To Sit At The Table With People Who Have Died, Who Neither Listen Nor Speak.