Though I know he loves me, tonight my heart is sad; his kiss was

“Though I know he loves me, tonight my heart is sad; his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams I had.” So spoke Sara Teasdale, poet of tenderness and sorrow, whose words echo through the corridors of time like the sigh of a forgotten harp. In this brief verse lies a world of longing—the eternal conflict between dream and reality, between what the soul imagines and what the world can offer. The poet’s lament is not for the absence of love, but for the truth that even love, in all its warmth and beauty, cannot always match the boundless visions that the heart weaves in solitude.

From the dawn of humankind, mortals have been dreamers. Before the first fire burned, before the first word was sung, we dreamed of light. And when light came, we dreamed of more. Teasdale’s sorrow is the sorrow of all who have loved too deeply in the realm of thought, and then touched the imperfect flesh of reality. The kiss, though real and sincere, could not rival the imagined splendor born of years of hope. The poet teaches us that expectation is the shadow of joy, and often it darkens the very thing it pursues.

Consider the story of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar. The queen of Egypt dreamed not merely of love, but of divine union—two souls who might rule heaven and earth together. Yet, when reality came, it was less than the dream. Though Caesar admired her brilliance and beauty, his heart was bound by empire, not eternity. When he left, her dream shattered—not because love did not exist, but because it could not match the grandeur of her inner vision. Thus, even queens must learn that the heart’s theater often outshines the world’s stage.

There is wisdom hidden in Teasdale’s sorrow. She speaks to the disillusionment that follows fulfillment—a paradox as old as the stars. The journey toward love, success, or glory often stirs the blood more fiercely than the attainment itself. The heart, being infinite, always seeks to outpace what is real. And so, when reality comes, no matter how gentle or kind, it can never fully satisfy the hunger that gave birth to the dream.

Yet we must not despair. For this longing, this eternal ache between the dream and the deed, is the source of all human greatness. Without it, no poet would write, no artist would paint, no warrior would rise at dawn. The pain of unmet dreams is the flame that tempers the soul. Teasdale’s sadness, therefore, is not weakness—it is sacred awareness, the knowing that love in the world of flesh is only a shadow of love in the realm of spirit.

So, what lesson does the poet bestow upon us? It is this: Love the dream, but cherish the real. Let your heart soar toward beauty, but do not curse the earth for not being heaven. When the kiss is gentle but not divine, smile still, for it is real—and reality, though imperfect, is the field upon which our spirits are tested. To live only in dreams is to starve; to live only in reality is to forget the stars.

Therefore, in your own life, walk the golden path between longing and gratitude. Dream with passion, but hold with humility. When your heart feels the pang of disappointment, do not turn bitter; instead, thank the moment for revealing your own depth of feeling. And when you love, love not for the perfection of your dreams, but for the sacred imperfection of another soul. For it is in that imperfection that true beauty lives—and there, amid the quiet sadness Teasdale once felt, your heart will find its most human, and most holy, peace.