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Poem by Sara Teasdale The Wine I cannot die, who drank delight From the cup of the crescent moon, And hungrily as men eat bread, Loved the scented nights of June. The rest may die—but is there not Some shining strange escape for me Who sought in Beauty the bright wine Of immortality? 1915 Sara Teasdale Sara Teasdale's other poems: 1225 Views |
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