Lit

As soon as a friend introduced Nora Roberts and I learned of Neil Gaiman and Stephen King, I forgot my first love: poems. Here's one by Sara Teasdale:

But Not To Me

The April night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree;
Peace comes to them on quiet feet,
But not to me.

My peace is hidden in his breast
Where I shall never be,
Love comes to-night to all the rest,
But not to me.