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Sara Teasdale, born Sara Trevor Teasdale, aka Sara Teasdale Filsinger

(1884 - 1933)


American Lyrical Poet

A hush is over everything, silent as women wait for love; the world is waiting for the spring.
Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no more to thee, God's daughter, powerful as God, it is that thou hast made my life too sweet to hold the added sweetness of a song. There is a quiet at the heart of love, and I have pierced the pain and come to peace.
All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, and many mouths must drain the dregs of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.
And as I played, a child came thro' the gate, a boy who looked at me without a word, as tho' he saw stretch far behind my head long lines of radiant angels, row on row. That day we spoke a little, timidly, and after that I never heard the voice that sang so many songs for love of me.
And when you spoke to me, I did not know that to my life's high altar came its priest.
As dew leaves the cobweb lightly Threaded with stars, Scattering jewels on the fence And the pasture bars; As dawn leaves the dry grass bright And the tangled weeds Bearing a rainbow gem On each of their seeds; So has your love, my lover, Fresh as the dawn, Made me a shining road To travel on, Set every common sight Of tree or stone Delicately alight For me alone.
Beauty in all things and in every hour. The gods have given life ? I gave them song; the debt is paid and now I turn to go.
Beauty, more than bitterness makes the heart break.
But I will turn my eyes from you as women turn to put away the jewels they have worn at night and cannot wear in sober day.
But oh, to him I loved who loved me not at all, I owe the little open gate that led thru heaven's wall.