Poem by Sara Teasdale

The Wine

 I cannot die, who drank delight
 From the cup of the crescent moon,
 And hungrily as men eat bread,
 Loved the scented nights of June.

 The rest may die—but is there not
 Some shining strange escape for me
 Who sought in Beauty the bright wine
 Of immortality?

1. Gray Fog
2. Spring Torrents
3. Morning Song
4. Nahant
5. Winter Dusk

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