The undercurrent of my every thought:
To seek you, find you, have you for my own.

I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went.

If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.

The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.

After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?

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.