Sara Teasdale’s speaker has made song after song for someone, yet admits that none of them has ever captured all that the person is. The repetition of “many and many” suggests a long, devoted effort, but it is never quite enough. The feeling is like throwing a net of words at a star: the net is too small and clumsy, and the star remains far beyond it. It is also like eagerly scooping up seawater with a curved hand, only to find that the water has lost the deep blue splendor it had in the ocean. The speaker is not angry or despairing; she is full of tender admiration, but also a little wistful, aware that language can only circle something too vast and bright to hold. The mood is reverent and quietly melancholy—the act of singing still seems worth the attempt, even though the beloved continually escapes the words.
The Net — Summary
I made you many and many a song, Yet never one told all you are-- It was as though a net of words Were flung to catch a star;
It was as though I curved my hand And dipped sea-water eagerly, Only to find it lost the blue Dark splendor of the sea.