Apology

Why is it that I sing no songs of you,
Now, as in those old days I used to do?
I have made many songs, and bitter songs.
Against you, I have done you many wrongs
In verse; and now, when you and I can sit
By the same fire, and looking into it
In silence, dream without unhappiness
Each his own dream in friendly loneliness,
I sing of you no longer. Still I find
Your shadow in all the corners of my mind,
And in my heart find you; but there, alas,
Though I search every cranny where it was,
My art I find not: it is well: my art
Knew only songs for an unquiet heart.