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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
(1884-1933)
The Look
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
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)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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, spring, summer, autumn, winter, Teasdale, Sara
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