Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;<p>And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were … - Sara Teasdale

I may not speak till Eros' torch is dim, The god is bitter and will have it so.

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten–
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth around faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild–
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I, too, a child?

Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup.