But Not To Me

The April night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree;
Peace comes to them on quiet feet,
But not to me.

My peace is hidden in his breast
Where I shall never be;
Love comes to-night to all the rest,
But not to me.

by Sara Teasdale

See more in : https://americanliterature.com/author/sara-teasdale/poem/but-not-to-me

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