by Sara Teasdale
We will never walk again
 As we used to walk at night,
Watching our shadows lengthen
 Under the gold street-light
 When the snow was new and white.
We will never walk again
 Slowly, we two,
In spring when the park is sweet
 With midnight and with dew,
 And the passers-by are few.
I sit and think of it all,
 And the blue June twilight dies, —
Down in the clanging square
 A street-piano cries
 And stars come out in the skies.