Unless I learn to ask no help From any other soul but mine, To seek no strength in waving reeds Nor shade beneath a straggling pine; Unless I learn to look at Grief Unshrinking from her tear-blind eyes, And take from Pleasure fearlessly Whatever gifts will make me wise Unless I learn these things on earth, Why was I ever given birth?
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Less Than The Cloud To The Wind