The Lost Romantic “But there’s a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon; Both of them speak of something that is gone.” I cannot tell perceiver from perceived. The tree is only seen; it can’t be known. There is no story that can be believed. My vision may be faulty, misconceived: I cannot reach the stoniness of stone; I cannot tell perceiver from perceived. How can I be other than deceived When all I hear’s an echo of my tone? There is no story that can be believed. No wonder that I feel so lost, and so bereaved While wandering by the lake so all alone. I cannot tell perceiver from perceived, Loser from lost, or thief from thieved. When all the age-old certainties have gone, There is no story that can be believed: The tree itself can never be retrieved; The swallow in her swallow-ness has flown; I cannot tell perceiver from perceived. And so, when all is given, all received, In this one field which I have looked upon There is no story that can be believed.
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