My windowpane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold tonight,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.
God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor tonight
Who walk the lamp lit streets of snow.
My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.
by Sara Teasdale
NOTES: (adapted from Wikipedia) . . .
Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouti, and used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger after her marriage in 1914. . . . From 1911 to 1914 Teasdale was courted by several men, including the poet Vachel Lindsay, who was truly in love with her but did not feel that he could provide enough money or stability to keep her satisfied. (In 1914) she chose to marry Ernst Filsinger, a long-time admirer of her poetry . . . In 1918 she won a Pulitzer Prize for her 1917 poetry collection ‘Love Songs’ . . . In 1933, she died by suicide, overdosing on sleeping pills. Lindsay had died by suicide two years earlier.