Sara Teasdale’s speaker can’t be fully present with anyone else because one person keeps taking over her attention. In conversation with other men, she measures their words against his and finds theirs less sharp and less gentle. Looking at other men only makes her wish for his face: gray eyes, dark skin, black hair. Even daydreaming offers no escape—the thought of him arrives like a strong wind and scatters her fantasies.
The feeling behind the poem is not bitter but quietly possessed. It is longing mixed with admiration and a little helplessness, as if the beloved has become the standard for everything. The short lines and simple repetitions create an intimate, almost murmuring tone. The mood is wistful and tender, but also lonely, because the speaker’s constant mental return to him makes everyone else seem faint and unreal.