by Sara Teasdale
My forefathers gave me
 My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
 The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
 And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
 And iridescent fires;
As the driftwood burning
 Learned its jewelled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
 Of colored nights and days.