Poetry Archives

(For Sara Teasdale)


The lonely farm, the crowded street,
 The palace and the slum,
Give welcome to my silent feet
 As, bearing gifts, I come.

Last night a beggar crouched alone,
 A ragged helpless thing;
I set him on a moonbeam throne—
 Today he is a king.

Last night a king in orb and crown
 Held court with splendid cheer;
Today he tears his purple gown
 And moans and shrieks in fear.

Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,
 Not land, nor sky, nor sea,
Nor love’s artillery of tears
 Can keep mine own from me.

Serene, unchanging, ever fair,
 I smile with secret mirth
And in a net of mine own hair
 I swing the captive earth.