Poem by Sara Teasdale

Eight O'Clock

  Supper comes at five o'clock,
   At six, the evening star,
  My lover comes at eight o'clock—
   But eight o'clock is far.

  How could I bear my pain all day
   Unless I watched to see
  The clock-hands laboring to bring
   Eight o'clock to me.

1. Gray Fog
2. Spring Torrents
3. Morning Song
4. Nahant
5. In a Cuban Garden

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