|
|
The Old Maid
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.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 741 times.
|
|
