The Years

by Sara Teasdale

　　To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me, The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy years, As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears. The years went by and never knew That each one brought me nearer you; Their path was narrow and apart And yet it led me to your heart, Oh, sensitive, shy years, oh, lonely years, That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears.