Sara Teasdale begins in an ancient place, likely the Greek temples at Paestum, now lying low among marsh-grass and wildflowers. Only small birdcalls mark the passing hours. The scene feels still and softened: grand stonework remains, but nature has gently overtaken it, and time no longer seems urgent.
That image becomes a mirror for the speaker’s own life. Her heart, she says, was once “like the city wild and gay” — busy, bright, full of energy. Now she imagines a future self left equally calm: no more turmoil, only the slow white stars crossing at night and swift brown birds moving through the day. The mood is elegiac but peaceful, even consoling. What remains after excitement is not emptiness, but a quieter kind of continuity. The poem suggests that being worn smooth by time may also mean being at rest.