Sara Teasdale

(8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933 / Missouri)

Come


Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
Come with arms outstretched to take me,
Come with lips pursed up to cling.

Come, for life is a frail moth flying,
Caught in the web of the years that pass,
And soon we two, so warm and eager,
Will be as the gray stones in the grass.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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