I cannot now say what there was

About her that took words from me

As other lovers took years or hours

That in the end had less meaning

Than the one poem that was here

Last night and this morning is not.

How much dearer and truer seems

What might have been than was.

How easily the shape and rhythm

Of love made on the page of desire.

Such poems are unwritten by light

And what am I to say to her now

Who knows only his dark passion?

She who in her leaving could not

Hear me and never looked back.