From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
Sara TeasdaleAbout author
- Author's profession: Author
- Nationality: american
- Born: August 8, 1884
- Died: January 29, 1933