Moonlight
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

It will not hurt me when I am old,
⁠      A running tide where moonlight burned
⁠            Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
⁠            It is the happy heart that breaks.

The heart asks more than life can give,
⁠      When that is learned, then all is learned;
⁠            The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
⁠            It will not hurt me when I am old.