In The End


All that could never be said,
All that could never be done,
Wait for us at last
Somewhere back of the sun;

All the heart broke to forego
Shall be ours without pain,
We shall take them as lightly as girls
Pluck flowers after rain.

And when they are ours in the end
Perhaps after all
The skies will not open for us
Nor heaven be there at our call.


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Return to the Sara Teasdale Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; In The Metropolitan Museum

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.