American Lyrical Poet
Sara Teasdale, born Sara Trevor Teasdale, aka Sara Teasdale Filsinger
American Lyrical Poet
Stephen kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, but Colin only looked at me and never kissed at all. Stephen?s kiss was lost in jest, Robin?s lost in play, but the kiss in Colin?s eyes haunts me night and day.
When I can look life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise, life will have given me the truth, and taken in exchange - my youth.
Sun-swept beaches with a light wind blowing from the immense blue circle of the sea, and the soft thunder where long waves whiten ? these were the same for Sappho as for me. Two thousand years ? much has gone by forever, change takes the gods and ships and speech of men ? but here on the beaches that time passes over the heart aches now as then.
When I went to look at what had long been hidden, a jewel laid long ago in a secret place, I trembled, for I thought to see its dark deep fire?but only a pinch of dust blew up in my face. I almost gave my life long ago for a thing that has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes?It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.
The ache of empty arms was an old tale to you.
Wisdom is not acquired save as the result of investigation.
The greenish sky glows up in misty reds, the purple shadows turn to brick and stone, the dreams wear thin, men turn upon their beds, and hear the milk-cart jangle by alone.
With the man I love who loves me not I walked in the street-lamps' flare ? but oh, the girls who can ask for love in the lights of Union Square.
The window-lights, myriads and myriads, bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.
You bound strong sandals on my feet, You gave me bread and wine, And sent me under sun and stars, For all the world was mine. Oh, take the sandals off my feet, You know not what you do, For all my world is in your arms, My sun and stars are you.
Then, like an old-time orator impressively he rose; I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.
You took my empty dreams and filled them every one with tenderness and nobleness, April and the sun. The old empty dreams where my thoughts would throng are far too full of happiness to even hold a song. Oh, the empty dreams were dim and the empty dreams were wide, they were sweet and shadowy houses where my thoughts could hide. But you took my dreams away and you made them all come true -- my thoughts have no place now to play, and nothing now to do.
There is no magic any more, we meet as other people do, you work no miracle for me nor I for you. You were the wind and I the sea -- there is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool beside the shore. But though the pool is safe from storm and from the tide has found surcease, it grows more bitter than the sea, for all its peace.
You will recognize your own path when you come upon it because you will suddenly have all the energy and imagination you will ever need.
There is no sign of leaf or bud, a hush is over everything ? silent as women wait for love, the world is waiting for the spring.
There never was a mood of mine, gay or heart-broken, luminous or dull, but you could ease me of its fever and give it back to me more beautiful. In many another soul I broke the bread, and drank the wine and played the happy guest, But I was lonely, I remembered you; the heart belong to him who knew it best.
There will be stars over the place forever; though the house we loved and the street we loved are lost, every time the earth circles her orbit on the night the autumn equinox is crossed, two stars we knew, poised on the peak of midnight will reach their zenith; stillness will be deep; there will be stars over the place forever, there will be stars forever, while we sleep.
There's nothing half so real in life as the things you've done... inexorably, unalterably done.
They came to tell your faults to me, They named them over one by one; I laughed aloud when they were done, I knew them all so well before,-- Oh, they were blind, too blind to see Your faults had made me love you more.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead that sparkled so the day I saw it first, and darkened slowly after. I am she who loves all beauty ? yet I wither it.
Though I know he loves me, tonight my heart is sad; his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams I had.
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.
Spend all you have for loveliness, buy it and never count the cost; for one white singing hour of peace count many a year of strife well lost, and for a breath of ecstasy give all you have been, or could be.
We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine, to think upon her sorrows, but her joys what nun could ever know a tithing of? The precious hours she watched above His sleep were worth the fearful anguish of the end. Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all.
Lost as a candle lit at noon,