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.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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