A strange procession passing me --
The years before I saw your face
Go by me with a wistful grace;
They pass, the sensitive shy years,
As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears.
The years went by and never knew
That each one brought me nearer you;
Their path was narrow and apart
And yet it led me to your heart --
Oh sensitive shy years, oh lonely years,
That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears.
-- Sara Teasdale
