Poem by Sara Teasdale
Was that his step that sounded on the stair?
Was that his knock I heard upon the door?
I grow so tired I almost cease to care,
And yet I would that he might come once more.
It was the wind I heard, that mocks at me,
The bitter wind that is more cruel than he;
It was the wind that knocked upon the door,
But he will never knock nor enter more.
Comments about Rispetto by Sara Teasdale
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Read poems about / on: wind