Now I become myself. It’s taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people’s faces, Run madly, as if Time were there, Terribly old, crying a warning, “Hurry, you will be dead before—” (What? Before you reach the morning? Or the end of the poem is clear? Or love safe in the walled city?) Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density! The black shadow on the paper Is my hand; the shadow of a word As thought shapes the shaper Falls heavy on the page, is heard. All fuses now, falls into place From wish to action, word to silence, My work, my love, my time, my face Gathered into one intense Gesture of growing like a plant. As slowly as the ripening fruit Fertile, detached, and always spent, Falls but does not exhaust the root, So all the poem is, can give, Grows in me to become the song, Made so and rooted by love. Now there is time and Time is young. O, in this single hour I live All of myself and do not move. I, the pursued, who madly ran, Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!
May Sarton (1912–1995) was a poet, novelist, and memoirist whose work captured the intimate struggles and joys of the human experience. Born in Belgium and raised in the United States, Sarton’s life was shaped by a deep love of nature, solitude, and self-reflection, themes that permeated her writing.
She wrote prolifically, with poetry that celebrated beauty and resilience, and memoirs that laid bare her personal challenges, including her identity as a lesbian in a less accepting era. Sarton’s work invites readers into her inner world, offering insights into creativity, love, and the art of growing old with grace.
For those seeking authenticity and quiet wisdom, her words remain a treasured refuge.
You can find this poem in — From Collected Poems 1930 – 1993 by May Sarton © W.W. Norton, 1993