Why am I thus,
A bit of thistle-down
Blowing about?
Neither friend nor lover
Can keep me near;
An if so,
But for a little while.
The win is in my ear,
The woods are deep.
A voice calls
At each road’s turn.
Something rises
With each wave,
And then lies
Hidden in the foam.
I follow, seeking,
But it flies beyond,
And I am left alone,
Far from those I love,
No nearer to the call.
Then suddenly I know
I am not thistle-down;
For where I have met
Friend and lover,
I have felt joy and pain,
And am held by these.
This piece originally appeared in New Strung Bow, a book of poems written by Sarah Lawrence students that was published in 1932.