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She is most
fair,
And when they see her pass
The poets' ladies
Look no more in the glass
But after her.
On a
bleak moor
Running under the moon
She lures a
poet,
Once proud or happy, soon
Far from his door.
Beside a train,
Because they saw her go,
Or
failed to see her,
Travellers and watchers know
Another pain.
The simple lack
Of her is more
to me
Than others' presence,
Whether life splendid
be
Or utter black.
I have not seen,
I have
no news of her;
I can tell only
She is not here,
but there
She might have been.
She is to be
kissed
Only perhaps by me;
She may be seeking
Me and no other; she
May not exist.
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