Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell;
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

A sonnet is a moment’s monument—
Memorial from the soul’s eternity
To one dead deathless hour.

My name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell.