And when you spoke to me, I did not know That to my life's high altar came its priest. - Sara Teasdale

"Dusk in Autumn"

The moon is like a scimitar,
A little silver scimitar,
A-drifting down the sky.
And near beside it is a star,
A timid twinkling golden star,
That watches likes an eye.

And thro’ the nursery window-pane
The witches have a fire again,
Just like the ones we make, — And now I know they’re having tea,
I wish they’d give a cup to me,
With witches’ currant cake.

Never again the music blown as brightly
Off of my heart as foam blown off a wave;
Never again the melody that lightly
Caressed my grief and healed the wounds it gave.

Never again–I hear my dark thoughts clashing
Sullen and blind as waves that beat a wall–
Age that is coming, summer that is going,
All I have lost or never found at all.

Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love — But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.