This poem causes actual pain. With thanks to the ever-luminous Paul Bromley-Slocombe.
Looking by chance in at the open window
I saw my own self seated in his chair
With gaze abstracted, furrowed forehead,
I thought that I had suddenly come to die,
That to a cold corpse this was my farewell,
Until the pen moved slowly on the paper
And tears fell.
He had written a name, yours, in printed letters
One word on which bemusedly to pore:
No protest, no desire, your naked name,
Would it be tomorrow, would it be next year?
But the vision was not false, this much I knew;
And I turned angrily from the open window
Aghast at you.
Why never a warning, either by speech or look,
That the love you cruelly gave me could not last?
Already it was too late: the bait swallowed,
The hook fast.