After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean!
When I read over this group of lines, I imagine that he does not know how to explain it, but that which he is feeling is something immeasurable. He recalls all the days which he has spent with them, and I imagine someone that I have known for quite some time, yet we haven't spoken in a long while. He is stuck in somewhat of the same position that I am.