Archive for Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on May 13, 2015 by telescoper

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.

by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

 

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Snowfall

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on January 20, 2015 by telescoper

“She can’t be unhappy,” you said,
“The smiles are like stars in her eyes,
And her laughter is thistledown
Around her low replies.”
“Is she unhappy?” you said–
But who has ever known
Another’s heartbreak–
All he can know is his own;
And she seems hushed to me,
As hushed as though
Her heart were a hunter’s fire
Smothered in snow.

by Sara Teasdale (1885-1933)

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Spring Rain

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on March 22, 2014 by telescoper

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light’s stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

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Debt

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on December 17, 2012 by telescoper

What do I owe to you
Who loved me deep and long?
You never gave my spirit wings
Or gave my heart a song.

But oh, to him I loved,
Who loved me not at all,
I owe the open gate
That led through heaven’s wall.

by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

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May Day

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on May 1, 2012 by telescoper

A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.

Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?

by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

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