by Sara Teasdale

At least I have loved you;
 Though much went wrong,
This was good,
 This was strong.

 In spite of the going of years,
Too sure to retract,
 Too proud for tears.

Let my love be the pillow
 Under your head,
On your lips like a song,
 To your hunger, bread.

Monadnock Valley Press > Teasdale