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Poem	I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying, But my heart drags down with an ancient load- My heart, that a second before was flying. I never behold the quivering rain- And sweeter the rain than a lover to me- But my heart is wild in my breast with pain; My heart, that was tapping contentedly. There's never a rose spreads new at my door Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night But I know I have known its beauty before, And a terrible sorrow along with the sight. The look of a laurel tree birthed for May Or a sycamore bared for a new November Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day- What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
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