Alone

Sara Teasdale

I am alone, in spite of love,

    In spite of all I take and give—

In spite of your wild tenderness,

    Sometimes I am not glad to live.


I am alone, as though I stood

    On the highest peak of the tired gray world,

About me only swirling snow,

    Above me endless space unfurled;


With earth hidden and heaven hidden

    And only my own spirit’s pride

To keep me from the peace of those

    Who are not lonely, having died.


The Yale Review is committed to publishing pieces from its archive as they originally appeared, without alterations to spelling, content, or style. Occasionally, errors creep in due to the digitization process; we work to correct these errors as we find them. You can email [email protected] with any you find.

Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) was an American poet. She was the first person to win the Poetry Society of America Prize, later renamed the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, for her 1917 poetry collection Love Songs.
Originally published:
October 1, 1918

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