What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, br I have forgotten, and what arms have lain br Under my head till morning; but the rain br Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh br Upon the glass and listen for reply, br And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain br For unremembered lads that not again br Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. br Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, br Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, br Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: br I cannot say what loves have come and gone, br I only know that summer sang in me br A little while, that in me sings no more.br br Edna St.