Edward Eastaway

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.