Sara Teasdale

The Tree of Song

I sang my songs for the rest,
 For you I am still;
The tree of my song is bare
 On its shining hill.

For you came like a lordly wind,
 And the leaves were whirled
Far as forgotten things
 Past the rim of the world.

The tree of my song stands bare
 Against the blue--
I gave my songs to the rest,
 Myself to you.