Jazz 2

What lips my lips have sung
and what kisses I’ve stung,
and why, I have forgotten
and recall not what crooked
arms have lain beneath
my head till morning; but
startled by rain I awaken,
appraise these ghosts that tap
a cord inside, rush upon my
emptied glass, listen for reply
and in my heart there stirs a quiet
pain for unremembered men
that thrill not again, who will
not turn to me at midnight with
a cry. Thus in winter stands
the lonely tree, lighter now
that birds have flown away
one by one, its boughs more
silent than before: I cannot
recall what loves have come
and gone, only that summer
sings in me no more.

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