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Lights by Sara Teasdale is a poem about simple love and familiarity as contrasted against the tired dissatisfaction of the masses.

When we come home at night and close the door,
 Standing together in the shadowy room,
 Safe in our own love and the gentle gloom,
Glad of familiar wall and chair and floor,

Glad to leave far below the clanging city;
 Looking far downward to the glaring street
 Gaudy with light, yet tired with many feet,
In both of us wells up a wordless pity; (Read on.)

Featured May 2007