Sara Teasdale

ONE by one, like leaves from a tree,

All my faiths have forsaken me;

But the stars above my head

Burn in white and delicate red,

And beneath my feet the earth

Brings the sturdy grass to birth.

I who was content to be

But a silken-singing tree,

But a rustle of delight

In the wistful heart of night,

I have lost the leaves that knew

Touch of rain and weight of dew.

Blinded by a leafy crown

I looked neither up nor down—

But the little leaves that die

Have left me room to see the sky;

Now for the first time I know

Stars above and earth below.