I will root out this day from your memory,
So that your helplessly hazy glance will ask:
Where did I see Persian lilac,
And swallows, and a little wooden house?
Oh, how often you will remember
The sudden anguish of unnamed desire,
And search, in drifting dream towns,
For the street that isn't on the map!
At the sight of every chance letter,
At the sound of a voice from a half-opened door,
You will think: "She herself
Has come to dispel my disbelief."
April 4, 1915