American Lyrical Poet
Sara Teasdale, born Sara Trevor Teasdale, aka Sara Teasdale Filsinger
American Lyrical Poet
Not lost, although I long to be.
Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning, we will come back to earth some fragrant night, and take these lanes to find the sea, and bending breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white. We will come down at night to these resounding beaches and the long gentle thunder of the sea, here for a single hour in the wide starlight we shall be happy, for the dead are free.
Life is but thought.
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.
Perhaps when all the world is bare and cruel winter holds the land, the Love that finds no place to hide will run and catch my hand. I shall not care to have him then, I shall be bitter and a-cold
Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow, lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow, let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain--but what if I heard my first love calling me again? Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam, take me far away to the hills that hide your home; peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door--but what if I heard my first love calling me once more?
Now at last I have come to see what life is, nothing is ever ended, everything only begun, and the brave victories that seem so splendid are never really won. Even love that I built my spirit's house for, comes like a brooding and a baffled guest, and music and men's praise and even laughter are not so good as rest.
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep, and shall my soul that lies within your hand remember nothing, as the blowing sand forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep when winds along the darkened desert sweep? Or would it still remember, tho' it spanned a thousand heavens, while the planets fanned the vacant ether with their voices deep? Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot, nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see the desolation of extinguished suns, nor fear the void where thro' our planet runs, for still together shall we go and not fare forth alone to front eternity.
Look for a lovely thing and you will find it, it is not far, it never will be far.
O lovely chance, what can I do to give my gratefulness to you? You rise between myself and me with a wise persistency; I would have broken body and soul, but by your grace, still I am whole.
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Of my own spirit let me be in sole though feeble mastery.
Lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh Earth, you gave me all I have, I love you, I love you, ? oh what have I that I can give you in return ? except my body after I die?
Love said, "Wake still and think of me," Sleep, "Close your eyes till break of day," but Dreams came by and smilingly gave both to Love and Sleep their way.
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?
Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love ? but you will not assuage him. He alone of all the gods will take no gifts from men.
Oh in the deep blue night the fountain sang alone; it sang to the drowsy heart of a satyr carved in stone. The fountain sang and sang but the satyr never stirred-- only the great white moon in the empty heaven heard. The fountain sang and sang and on the marble rim the milk-white peacocks slept, their dreams were strange and dim. Bright dew was on the grass, and on the ilex dew, the dreamy milk-white birds were all a-glisten too. The fountain sang and sang the things one cannot tell, the dreaming peacocks stirred and the gleaming dew-drops fell.
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.
Oh who can tell the range of joy or set the bounds of beauty?
It grows too late for frolicking when all the world is old. Then little hiding Love, come forth, come forth before the autumn goes, and let us seek thro' ruined paths the garden's last red rose.
My dreams are over, I have ceased to cry against the fate that made men love my mouth and left their spirits all too deaf to hear the little songs that echoed through my soul. I have no anger now. The dreams are done; yet since the Greeks and Trojans would not see aught but my body's fairness, till the end, in all the islands set in all the seas, and all the lands that lie beneath the sun, till light turn darkness, and till time shall sleep, men's lives shall waste with longing after me, for I shall be the sum of their desire, the whole of beauty, never seen again.
Oh, beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?
It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.
My heart is a garden tired with autumn.