It was a night of early spring,
The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
Listened for what was never spoken.
Though half a score of years are gone,
Spring comes as sharply now as then–
But if we had it all to do
It would be done the same again.
It was a spring that never came,
But we have lived enough to know
What we have never had remains;
It is the things we have that go.
–Sara Teasdale
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