They said he sent his love to me, They wouldn't put it in my hand, And when I asked them where it was They said I couldn't understand. I thought they must have hidden it, I hunted for it all the day, And when I told them so at night They smiled and turned their heads away. They say that love is something kind, That I can never see or touch. I wish he'd sent me something else, I like his cough-drops twice as much.
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Gray Eyes