by Sara Teasdale

In the silver light after a storm,
  Under dripping boughs of bright new green,
I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks
  Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.

What have I to fear in life or death
  Who have known three things: the kiss in the night,
The white flying joy when a song is born,
  And meadowlarks whistling in silver light.

Monadnock Valley Press > Teasdale