How many times we must have met Here on the street as strangers do, Children of chance we were, who passed The door of heaven and never knew. - Sara Teasdale

Faults They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before, — Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.

It was a night of early spring,
The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
Listened for what was never spoken.

Though half a score of years are gone,
Spring comes as sharply now as then — But if we had it all to do
It would be done the same again.

It was a spring that never came;
But we have lived enough to know
That what we never have, remains;
It is the things we have that go.

From my spirit's gray defeat,
From my pulse's flagging beat,
From my hopes that turned to sand
Sifting through my close-clenched hand,
From my own fault's slavery,
If I can sing, I still am free.

For with my singing I can make
A refuge for my spirit's sake,
A house of shining words, to be
My fragile immortality.