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by Sara Teasdale
I am alone, in spite of love,
 In spite of all I take and give —
In spite of all your tenderness,
 Sometimes I am not glad to live.
I am alone, as though I stood
 On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
About me only swirling snow,
 Above me, endless space unfurled;
With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
 And only my own spirit's pride
To keep me from the peace of those
 Who are not lonely, having died.

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