(New York, December, 1931)
From a High Window
Sara TeasdaleFrom a high window, this December night,
The spangled city, tremulously gay,
Cried out to us from every ambered light:
“Oh love me, love me, for I cannot stay;
My forehead leans too close against the stars,
I am the tallest city of all time,
But I shall be the prey of little wars,
I shall go down to heaps of rust and lime.
I am a princess, lithe and swaying lightly
Above the housewife-cities of the earth;
I shall reward you not, but love me nightly
Though I shall bring no race of men to birth;
Oh love me, praise me, fold me in your song—
Though I am lovely, I am not for long.”
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.
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