Autumnal No motion has she now, no force—Wordsworth

Is it your breath, that once warmed me?
                 No, merely a thought that disarms me.
Have you come at last, up from the river?
                 I came by a path that seemed lost forever.

I knew by your step, your way of kneeling—
                 You sense not at all, you have no feeling.
And your hand, that brushes away the leaves—
                 No more than a gathering wind in the trees.

But still your touch finds purchase within me—
                 Whatever your dream, that gesture is empty.
Those moments forsworn, that ecstasy brief?
                 I am but a stranger now, even to grief.

With sorrow outlasted, what draws you so near?
                 Words that give witness though no one can hear.
What do they mean? Does nothing remain?
                 Only the sound of the wind and the rain.