Peace flows into me As the tide to the pool by the shore; It is mine forevermore, It ebbs not back like the sea. I am the pool of blue That worships… - 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.

The April night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree;
Peace comes to them on quiet feet,
But not to me.

My peace is hidden in his breast
Where I shall never be,
Loves come to-night to all the rest,
But not to me.

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, 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 somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face. — Sara Teasdale, “Those Who Love,” The Poems of Sara Teasdale (Neeland Media LLC, July 1, 2004)