From the Archives

The Solitary

Sara Teasdale

Let them think I love them more than I do,

Let them think I care, though I go alone,

If it lifts their pride, what is it to me

Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone?

It is one to me that they come or go

If I have myself and the drive of my will,

And strength to climb on a summer night

And watch the stars swarm over the hill.

My heart has grown rich with the passing of years,

I have less need now than when I was young

To share myself with every comer,

Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue.

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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