by Sara Teasdale
When I went to look at what had long been hidden,
 A jewel laid long ago in a secret place,
I trembled, for I thought to see its dark deep fire —
 But only a pinch of dust blew up in my face.
I almost gave my life long ago for a thing
 That has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes —
It is strange how often a heart must be broken
 Before the years can make it wise.