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 almost gave my life long ago for a thing
That has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes — It is strange how often a heart must be broken
Before the years can make it wise.

And as I played, a child came thro' the gate, A boy who looked at me without a word, As tho' he saw stretch far behind my head Long lines of radiant angels, row on row. That day we spoke a little, timidly, And after that I never heard the voice That sang so many songs for love of me.

Those who love the most
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guenevere,
Dierdre, Iseult, Heloise
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak, if at all,
Of fragile, inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in lonely pride,
Never spoke of this thing
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.