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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 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.
Reblogged this on Memories Before The Menopause.
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My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends – it gives a lovely light!
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Thank you! I love this poem. First Fig, right?
Dorothy Parker.be damned, she was the original bad girl.