I only know that summer sang in me

Since I rarely have anything of note to put here, I might make it a habit to occasionally post poems I really really like.

This is from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay.


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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.