There are so many things I have forgot, br That once were much to me, or that were not, br All lost, as is a childless woman's child br And its child's children, in the undefiled br Abyss of what can never be again. br I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men br That fought and lost or won in the old wars, br Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars. br Some things I have forgot that I forget. br But lesser things there are, remembered yet, br Than all the others. One name that I have not -- br Though 'tis an empty thingless name -- forgot br Never can die because Spring after Spring br Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing. br There is always one at midday saying it clear br And tart -- the name, only the name I hear. br While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent br That is like food, or while I am content br With the wild rose scent that is like memory, br This name suddenly is cried out to me br From somewhere in the bushes by a bird br Over and over again, a pure thrush word.