Across the sleeping valley nothing tells
Of presence and of loneliness like wind,
Except perhaps when leaves have just gone still,
And you had been aware of all of them.
The ocean cannot tell it, nor the stars,
Their stories are too constant and the same,
The waves repeat, the stars, their endless flame,
But wind, it comes, and then it goes away.
It is the absence of a thing that was--
That makes a gentle presence seem as sad,
And on our face its fragrant touch is here
To tell use what is now with what has passed.
As when we met, and stars were in the trees,
When all the wind was dancing in the leaves.
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