The Unknown
SHE is most fair,And when they see her passThe poets' ladiesLook no more in the glassBut after her.
On a bleak moorRunning under the moonShe lures a poet,Once proud or happy, soonFar from his door.
Beside a train,Because they saw her go,Or failed to see her,Travellers and watchers knowAnother pain.
The simple lackOf her is more to meThan others' presence,Whether life splendid beOr utter black.
I have not seen,I have no news of her;I can tell onlyShe is not here, but thereShe might have been.
She is to be kissedOnly perhaps by me;She may be seekingMe and no other; sheMay not exist.
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