by Sara Teasdale
When first I saw you—felt you take my hand,
I could not speak for happiness to find
How more than all they said your heart was kind,
How strong you were, and quick to understand—
I dared not say: "I who am least of those
Who call you friend,—I love you, and I crave
A little love that I may be more brave
Because one watches me who cares and knows."
So, silent, long ago I used to look
High up along the shelves at one great book,
And longed to see its contents, childishwise,
And now I know it for my Poet's own,—
So sometime shall I know you and be known,
And looking upward, I shall find your eyes.