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Teasdale, Sara

· Day And Night by Sara Teasdale · Doubt by Sara Teasdale · I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale · Sara Teasdale: The Look · Sara Teasdale: The Voice · 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

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Day And Night by Sara Teasdale


Day And Night

In Warsaw in Poland
Half the world away,
The one I love best of all
Thought of me to-day;
I know, for I went
Winged as a bird,
In the wide flowing wind
His own voice I heard;
His arms were round me
In a ferny place,
I looked in the pool
And there was his face
But now it is night
And the cold stars say:
“Warsaw in Poland
Is half the world away.”

Sara Teasdale
Day And Night

• magazine

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Doubt by Sara Teasdale


My soul lives in my body’s house,
And you have both the house and her,
But sometimes she is less your own
Than a wild, gay adventurer;
A restless and an eager wraith,
How can I tell what she will do,
Oh, I am sure of my body’s faith,
But what if my soul broke faith with you?

Sara Teasdale

• magazine

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I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale

I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sara Teasdale
I Am Not Yours

• magazine

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Sara Teasdale: The Look


The Look

Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.

Sara Teasdale
The Look

• magazine

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Sara Teasdale: The Voice


The Voice

Atoms as old as stars,
Mutation on mutation,
Millions and millions of cells
Dividing yet still the same,
From air and changing earth,
From ancient Eastern rivers,
From turquoise tropic seas,
Unto myself I came.
My spirit like my flesh
Sprang from a thousand sources,
From cave-man, hunter and shepherd,
From Karnak, Cyprus, Rome;
The living thoughts in me
Spring from dead men and women,
Forgotten time out of mind
And many as bubbles of foam.
Here for a moment’s space
Into the light out of darkness,
I come and they come with me
Finding words with my breath;
From the wisdom of many life-times
I hear them cry: ‘Forever
Seek for Beauty, she only
Fights with man against Death!’


Sara Teasdale
(1884 – 1933) magazine

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Sara TEASDALE: “Only in Sleep”


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 magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara


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 magazine 

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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 magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara

Sara Teasdale: Young Love

sarateasdale 04

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)


Young Love


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.


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.



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?



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?


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.


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.



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.


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.



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”.



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 magazine

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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 magazine 

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Sara Teasdale: Alone

sarateasdale 04

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)




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 magazine

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Sara Teasdale: Pain

sarateasdale 03

Sara Teasdale

(1884 – 1933)




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 magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara

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