Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdalewas an American lyric poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri, and used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger after her marriage in 1914...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth8 August 1884
CitySt. Louis, MO
CountryUnited States of America
memorable possessed possessing
No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.
suicide rain suicidal
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. For I shall have peace. As leafey trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough. And I shall be more silent and cold hearted Than you are now
beach missing-someone sea
I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea -- We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me.
moon light clouds
Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.
stars rain love-you
Life has loveliness to sell, / Music like a curve of gold, / Scent of pine trees in the rain, / Eyes that love you, arms that hold, / And for your spirit's still delight, / Holy thoughts that star the night.
beauty years white
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.
tired autumn years
The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die...
unfulfillment remains
What we have never had, remains; It is the things we have that go.
gratitude giving ecstasy
And for a breath of ecstasy / Give all you have been, or could be.
time kind old-time
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
spring emotional irritation
My theory is that poems are written because of a state of emotional irritation. It may be present for some time before the poet is conscious of what is tormenting him. The emotional irritation springs, probably, from subconscious combinations of partly forgotten thoughts and feelings. Coming together, like electrical currents in a thunder storm, they produce a poem. ... the poem is written to free the poet from an emotional burden.
reading thinking flames
The poet should try to give his poem the quiet swiftness of flame, so that the reader will feel and not think while he is reading. But the thinking will come afterwards.
tired come-back-to-me hush
Places I love come back to me like music, / Hush me and heal me when I am very tired ...
old-love being-true faithless
Old love, old love, / How can I be true? / Shall I be faithless to myself / Or to you?