In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. CINEMA, RADIO & TV
  2. DANCE
  3. DICTIONARY OF IDEAS
  4. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  5. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  6. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  7. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  8. MONTAIGNE
  9. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  10. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra
  11. MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST- photos, texts, videos, street poetry
  12. MUSIC
  13. PRESS & PUBLISHING
  14. REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
  15. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  16. STREET POETRY
  17. THEATRE
  18. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  19. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm and others, fairy tales, the art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, the ideal woman
  20. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

Teasdale, Sara

· Sara TEASDALE: “Only in Sleep” · SARA TEASDALE: THE UNSEEN · Sara Teasdale: “It Is Not a Word” · Sara Teasdale: Young Love · Sara Teasdale: Other Men · Sara Teasdale: Alone · Sara Teasdale: Pain · Sara Teasdale: I Shall Not Care · Sara Teasdale: The Kiss · Sara Teasdale: Swans · Sara Teasdale: In the Metropolitan Museum · Sara Teasdale: There Will Come Soft Rains

Sara TEASDALE: “Only in Sleep”

 fdm_sarateasdale

Sara Teasdale
(1884 – 1933)

“Only in Sleep”

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten—
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild—
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?

Sara Teasdale
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


SARA TEASDALE: THE UNSEEN

sarateasdale 02

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

The Unseen

 

Death went up the hall

Unseen by every one,

Trailing twilight robes

Past the nurse and the nun.

 

He paused at every door

And listened to the breath

Of those who did not know

How near they were to Death.

 

Death went up the hall

Unseen by nurse and nun;

He passed by many a door–

But he entered one.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine 

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: “It Is Not a Word”

sarateasdale 02

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

“It Is Not a Word”

 

It is not a word spoken,

Few words are said;

Nor even a look of the eyes

Nor a bend of the head,

But only a hush of the heart

That has too much to keep,

Only memories waking

That sleep so light a sleep.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: Young Love

sarateasdale 04

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

Young Love

I

I cannot heed the words they say,

The lights grow far away and dim,

Amid the laughing men and maids

My eyes unbidden seek for him.

 

I hope that when he smiles at me

He does not guess my joy and pain,

For if he did, he is too kind

To ever look my way again.


II

I have a secret in my heart

No ears have ever heard,

And still it sings there day by day

Most like a caged bird.

 

And when it beats against the bars,

I do not set it free,

For I am happier to know

It only sings for me.

 

III

I wrote his name along the beach,

I love the letters so.

Far up it seemed and out of reach,

For still the tide was low.

 

But oh, the sea came creeping up,

And washed the name away,

And on the sand where it had been

A bit of sea-grass lay.

 

A bit of sea-grass on the sand,

Dropped from a mermaid’s hair–

Ah, had she come to kiss his name

And leave a token there?

 

IV

What am I that he should love me,

He who stands so far above me,

What am I?

I am like a cowslip turning

Toward the sky,

Where a planet’s golden burning

Breaks the cowslip’s heart with yearning,

What am I that he should love me,

What am I?


V

O dreams that flock about my sleep,

I pray you bring my love to me,

And let me think I hear his voice

Again ring free.

 

And if you care to please me well,

And live to-morrow in my mind,

Let him who was so cold before,

To-night seem kind.


VI

I plucked a daisy in the fields,

And there beneath the sun

I let its silver petals fall

One after one.

 

I said, “He loves me, loves me not,”

And oh, my heart beat fast,

The flower was kind, it let me say

“He loves me,” last.

 

I kissed the little leafless stem,

But oh, my poor heart knew

The words the flower had said to me,

They were not true.

 

VII

I sent my love a letter,

And if he loves me not,

He shall not find my love for him

In any line or dot.

 

But if he loves me truly,

He’ll find it hidden deep,

As dawn gleams red thro’ chilly clouds

To eyes awaked from sleep.


VIII

The world is cold and gray and wet,

And I am heavy-hearted, yet

When I am home and look to see

The place my letters wait for me,

If I should find ONE letter there,

I think I should not greatly care

If it were rainy or were fair,

For all the world would suddenly

Seem like a festival to me.

 

IX

I hid three words within my heart,

That longed to fly to him,

At dawn they woke me with a start,

They sang till day was dim.

 

And now at last I let them fly,

As little birds should do,

And he will know the first is “I”,

The others “Love” and “You”.

 

X

Across the twilight’s violet

His curtained window glimmers gold;

Oh happy light that round my love

Can fold.

 

Oh happy book within his hand,

Oh happy page he glorifies,

Oh happy little word beneath

His eyes.

 

But oh, thrice happy, happy I

Who love him more than songs can tell,

For in the heaven of his heart

I dwell.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: Other Men

sarateasdale 05

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

Other Men

 

When I talk with other men

I always think of you–

Your words are keener than their words,

And they are gentler, too.

 

When I look at other men,

I wish your face were there,

With its gray eyes and dark skin

And tossed black hair.

 

When I think of other men,

Dreaming alone by day,

The thought of you like a strong wind

Blows the dreams away.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine 

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: Alone

sarateasdale 04

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

Alone

 

I am alone, in spite of love,

In spite of all I take and give–

In spite of all your tenderness,

Sometimes I am not glad to live.

 

I am alone, as though I stood

On the highest peak of the tired gray world,

About me only swirling snow,

Above me, endless space unfurled;

 

With earth hidden and heaven hidden,

And only my own spirit’s pride

To keep me from the peace of those

Who are not lonely, having died.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: Pain

sarateasdale 03

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

Pain

 

Waves are the sea’s white daughters,

And raindrops the children of rain,

But why for my shimmering body

Have I a mother like Pain?

 

Night is the mother of stars,

And wind the mother of foam–

The world is brimming with beauty,

But I must stay at home.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: I Shall Not Care

sarateasdale 01

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)


 

I Shall Not Care

 

When I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,

Tho’ you should lean above me broken-hearted,

I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough,

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

Than you are now.


Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: The Kiss

sarateasdale 01

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

The Kiss

 

I hoped that he would love me,

And he has kissed my mouth,

But I am like a stricken bird

That cannot reach the south.

 

For tho’ I know he loves me,

To-night my heart is sad;

His kiss was not so wonderful

As all the dreams I had.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: Swans

sarateasdale 03

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)


Swans

 

Night is over the park, and a few brave stars

Look on the lights that link it with chains of gold,

The lake bears up their reflection in broken bars

That seem too heavy for tremulous water to hold.

 

We watch the swans that sleep in a shadowy place,

And now and again one wakes and uplifts its head;

How still you are–your gaze is on my face–

We watch the swans and never a word is said.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: In the Metropolitan Museum

sarateasdale 03

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

In the Metropolitan Museum

 

Within the tiny Pantheon

We stood together silently,

Leaving the restless crowd awhile

As ships find shelter from the sea.

 

The ancient centuries came back

To cover us a moment’s space,

And thro’ the dome the light was glad

Because it shone upon your face.

 

Ah, not from Rome but farther still,

Beyond sun-smitten Salamis,

The moment took us, till you stooped

To find the present with a kiss.

 

Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Sara Teasdale: There Will Come Soft Rains

sarateasdale 02

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)

 

There Will Come Soft Rains

 

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

 

And frogs in the pools, singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

 

Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

 

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

 

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;

 

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.


Sara Teasdale poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


Thank you for reading FLEURSDUMAL.NL - magazine for art & literature