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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