Upon This Earth David Sylvian (Ft. Robert Graves)

Looking by chance in at the open window
I saw my own self seated in his chair
With gaze abstracted, furrowed forehead, unkempt hair

I thought that I had suddenly come to die
That to a cold corpse this was my farewell
Until the pen moved slowly upon 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, nothing more

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