It was a night of early spring,
    The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
    Listened for what was never spoken.

Though half a score of years are gone,
    Spring comes as sharply now as then—
But if we had it all to do
    It would be done the same again.

It was a spring that never came;
    But we have lived enough to know
That what we never have, remains;
    It is the things we have that go. 

More information on Sara Teasdale