From my spirits gray defeat, From my pulses flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own faults slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirits sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Riches