Sara Teasdale

(August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933 / Missouri / United States)

The Old Maid - Poem by Sara Teasdale

I saw her in a Broadway car,
The woman I might grow to be;
I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me.

Her hair was dull and drew no light
And yet its color was as mine;
Her eyes were strangely like my eyes
Tho' love had never made them shine.

Her body was a thing grown thin,
Hungry for love that never came;
Her soul was frozen in the dark
Unwarmed forever by love's flame.

I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me,--
His eyes were magic to defy
The woman I shall never be.


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Read poems about / on: woman, magic, car, hair, dark, light, love, women



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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