Classic Poem

I have been seeing his face everywhere, the face of a former lover.
But it is not he. Passing, passing in the daily crowd,
an old ghost of the mind, of the heart, a starting up
of indelible pang. I said I would never forget.
O the unknowing will of first love,
forcing a way, an eternity of feeling.

Is it the time of the year? I cannot remember.
Memory will not yield his sure image, all clear trace
lockt at the springs of passion. Only old will
forces recall. All else forgotten. But the dead
turn certainly in the graves of our longing,
the dead belonging turns, seeking, unwanted.
He was once all of wanting, a need, an end
of youth! Now I am mistaken, often,
seeing his wraith in faces passing.