Waves are the sea’s white daughters,
And raindrops the children of rain,
But why for my shimmering body
Have I a mother like Pain?

Night is the mother of stars,
And wind the mother of foam,
The world is brimming with beauty,
But I must stay at home.


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Add Pain to your library.

Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Paris In Spring

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