It was a night of early spring,
The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
Listening for what was never spoken.
Though half a score of years are gone,
Spring comes as sharply now as then—
But if we had it all to do
It would be done the same again.
It was a spring that never came,
But we have lived enough to know
What we have never had, remains;
It is the things we have that go.
Source: Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale