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Poem by Sara Teasdale


Wild Asters


IN THE spring I asked the daisies
    If his words were true, 
And the clever little daisies
    Always knew.

Now the fields are brown and barren,
    Bitter autumn blows, 
And of all the stupid asters
    Not one knows.



Sara Teasdale


Sara Teasdale's other poems:
  1. Song at Capri
  2. Pierrot
  3. Love Me
  4. In the Metropolitan Museum
  5. Dew


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