Unfortunate remains
On the shore
A few stale bones
A fragment of a tooth long since decayed
Within the process and the press of mind
Flowers withered in a book; a memory
Uncut, like a spring rose, like a dawn
Undreamed of in the dark, you come
You come, my friend. Now you are here

A still and ceaseless presence in the air
Pretending attributes of place and time
But caught in movements of another dream
Within whose grasp, my soul and I appear
To stumble, wander, and at last to seem
Repentant for our simple, single, proud
Invincible reminder

Remembering when
You held my hand beside the brook at dawn
The waters still and moving round our feet
The book within my brain as yet unmade
The trees all upright in the southern air
The bees all briskly bustling on the page

I turn, I turn, to forget; beside my brain
Someone has just installed a sort of pain
That tells me you are here; you here; alone
At dawn or at the last despatch of eve
I've walked beside these walks or sat beside
This hollow tree; within whose vacant root
Stars perish, and the blindworm has his home

And then
When you come back (I shall invite you to return)
They will not fetch the book from that old shelf
On which the spiders have their constant place
And I shall not remember your blank face
Within the page I turn, within the place
I burn; and there is no disgrace
In putting this last fragment on the fire
The book is closed, the page is lost; desire
Has had its day; the dawn
Retires; the night is over; stir the fire.

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