The sons of the sons of the son - what will they make of the world ?

What lips my lips kissed,
and where,
and why,
I have forgotten,
and what arms have lain under
my head till morning;
But the rain is full of ghosts tonight,
that tap and sigh upon the glass
and listen for reply,
and in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
for unremembered lads that not again
will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
yet knows its boughs more silent than before;
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while,
that in me sings no more.