Not a sonnet this week. I first read this poem in a story about a woman with amnesia - ironically I’ve long since forgotten the title and author of the story, but by the end of the book I’d memorized this poem. It’s written by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933).
Off Algiers
Oh give me neither love nor tears,
Nor dreams that sear the night with fire,
Go lightly on your pilgrimage
Unburdened by desire.
Forget me for a month, a year,
But, oh, beloved, think of me
When unexpected beauty burns
Like sudden sunlight on the sea.
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