This poem encapsulates Teasdale's body of poetry, in my opinion. Her poetry is self-centered and therefore ultimately empty. This is a theme that appears over and over in her poetry, so I suspect she, in some manner, realized the same thing.

HOUSE OF DREAMS
Words by Sara Teasdale, music by James E. Nelson

I built a little House of Dreams
And fenced it all about.
But still I heard the Wind of Truth
That roared without.

I laid a fire of memories
And sat before the glow,
But through the chinks and round the door
The Wind would blow.

I left the House, for all the night
I heard the Wind of Truth; --
I followed where it seemed to lead
Through all my youth.

But when I sought the House of Dreams,
To creep within and die,
The Wind of Truth had leveled it,
And passed it by.