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Poem by Sara Teasdale A Cry Oh, there are eyes that he can see, And hands to make his hands rejoice, But to my lover I must be Only a voice. Oh, there are breasts to bear his head, And lips whereon his lips can lie, But I must be till I am dead Only a cry. Sara Teasdale Sara Teasdale's other poems: Poems of the other poets with the same name: 1291 Views |
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