by Sara Teasdale
In the silver light after a storm,
 Under dripping boughs of bright new green,
I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks
 Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.
What have I to fear in life or death
 Who have known three things:  the kiss in the night,
The white flying joy when a song is born,
 And meadowlarks whistling in silver light.