Pity

A poem by Sara Teasdale

They never saw my lover’s face,
They only know our love was brief,
Wearing awhile a windy grace
And passing like an autumn leaf.

They wonder why I do not weep,
They think it strange that I can sing,
They say, “Her love was scarcely deep
Since it has left so slight a sting.”

They never saw my love, nor knew
That in my heart’s most secret place
I pity them as angels do

Men who have never seen God’s face.

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