Wild Asters

A poem by Sara Teasdale

In the spring I asked the daisies
If his words were true,
And the clever, clear-eyed daisies
Always knew.

Now the fields are brown and barren,
Bitter autumn blows,
And of all the stupid asters
Not one knows.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Wild Asters' by Sara Teasdale

comments powered by Disqus