Sara Teasdale

WHEN I go back to earth

And all my joyous body

Puts off the red and white

That once had been so proud,

If men should pass above

With false and feeble pity,

My dust will find a voice

To answer them aloud:

“Be still, I am content,

Take back your poor compassion—

Joy was a flame in me

Too steady to destroy.

Lithe as a bending reed

Loving the storm that sways her—

I found more joy in sorrow

Than you could find in joy.”