There never was a mood of mine, Gay or heart-broken, luminous or dull, But you could ease me of its fever And give it back to me more beautiful. In many another soul I broke the bread, And drank the wine and played the happy guest, But I was lonely, I remembered you; The heart belong to him who knew it best.
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; I Shall Not Care