I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost
Who died before the god of Love was born.

I met a ghost in an old bare house,
That looked with lusterless eyes at me,
And drove from my eyes sweet dreams & drowse,
Till the morning made it flee.

My house is builded of years decayed,
And in vain I fill it with new glad light,
For a love that is lost is a ghost unlaid
That troubles the silent night.

I often see my lost lover in dreams.

I went back to the clanging city,
I went back where my old loves stayed,
But my heart was full of my new love's glory,
My eyes were laughing and unafraid.

I met one who had loved me madly
And told his love for all to hear — But we talked of a thousand things together,
The past was buried too deep to fear.

I met the other, whose love was given
With never a kiss and scarcely a word -
Oh, it was then the terror took me
Of words unuttered that breathed and stirred.

Oh, love that lives its life with laughter
Or love that lives its life with tears
Can die - but love that is never spoken
Goes like a ghost through the winding years…

I went back to the clanging city,
I went back where my old loves stayed,
My heart was full of my new love's glory, -
But my eyes were suddenly afraid.

whom the god loves dies young

Oh, love that lives its life with laughter Or love that lives its life with tears Can die — but love that is never spoken Goes like a ghost through the winding years. . .

I could only relate to a dead image of the person I could love. The image of my dead grandfather would be the model of him at his most striking in my mind. It seems necessary for them to have been dead in order that I could express those feelings which were the feelings I held sacred for my grandfather ... it was a pseudo-sexual, infantile love which had not yet developed and matured. The sight of them [my victims] brought me a bitter sweetness and a temporary peace and fulfillment.

I am the archaeologist of love. I’m digging for the bones of a loved one I shot and buried decades ago.

With duller steel than the Perséan sword
They cut away no formless monster's head,
But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd.
'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned.

Love, like ghosts, is often spoken of, but rarely seen.

I kind of feel like Old Darko died. Like, when I think about myself, or myself when I was playing, I feel like I’m sort of thinking about someone who is dead.

فِي كُلِّ حُبٍّ أرى الحُبَّ مَوتاً لِمَوْتٍ سَبَقْ

Here my last love had died.

I know that my true friend will appear after my death, and my sweetheart died before I was born.