X

Thoughts

  When I am all alone
   Envy me most,
  Then my thoughts flutter round me
   In a glimmering host;

  Some dressed in silver,
   Some dressed in white,
  Each like a taper
   Blossoming light;

  Most of them merry,
   Some of them grave,
  Each of them lithe
   As willows that wave;

  Some bearing violets,
   Some bearing bay,
  One with a burning rose
   Hidden away—

  When I am all alone
   Envy me then,
  For I have better friends
   Than women and men.

Faces

  People that I meet and pass
   In the city's broken roar,
  Faces that I lose so soon
   And have never found before,

  Do you know how much you tell
   In the meeting of our eyes,
  How ashamed I am, and sad
   To have pierced your poor disguise?

  Secrets rushing without sound
   Crying from your hiding places—
  Let me go, I cannot bear
   The sorrow of the passing faces.

  —People in the restless street,
   Can it be, oh can it be
  In the meeting of our eyes
   That you know as much of me?

Evening: New York

  Blue dust of evening over my city,
   Over the ocean of roofs and the tall towers
  Where the window-lights, myriads and myriads,
   Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.

Snowfall

  "She can't be unhappy," you said,
   "The smiles are like stars in her eyes,
  And her laugh 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.

The Silent Battle

(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)

  He was a soldier in that fight
   Where there is neither flag nor drum,
  And without sound of musketry
   The stealthy foemen come.

  Year in, year out, by day and night
   They forced him to a slow retreat,
  And for his gallant fight alone
   No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

  In winter fog, in gathering mist
   The gray grim battle had its end—
  And at the very last we knew
   His enemy had turned his friend.

The Sanctuary

  If I could keep my innermost Me
  Fearless, aloof and free
  Of the least breath of love or hate,
  And not disconsolate
  At the sick load of sorrow laid on men;
  If I could keep a sanctuary there
  Free even of prayer,
  If I could do this, then,
  With quiet candor as I grew more wise
  I could look even at God with grave forgiving eyes.

At Sea

  In the pull of the wind I stand, lonely,
   On the deck of a ship, rising, falling,
  Wild night around me, wild water under me,
   Whipped by the storm, screaming and calling.

  Earth is hostile and the sea hostile,
   Why do I look for a place to rest?
  I must fight always and die fighting
   With fear an unhealing wound in my breast.

Dust

  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 Long Hill

  I must have passed the crest a while ago
   And now I am going down—
  Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know,
   But the brambles were always catching the hem of my gown.

  All the morning I thought how proud I should be
   To stand there straight as a queen,
  Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me—
   But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen.

  It was nearly level along the beaten track
   And the brambles caught in my gown—
  But it's no use now to think of turning back,
   The rest of the way will be only going down.

XI

Summer Storm

  The panther wind
   Leaps out of the night,
  The snake of lightning
   Is twisting and white,
  The lion of thunder
   Roars—and we
  Sit still and content
   Under a tree—
  We have met fate together
   And love and pain,
  Why should we fear
   The wrath of the rain!

In the End

  All that could never be said,
   All that could never be done,
  Wait for us at last
   Somewhere back of the sun;

  All the heart broke to forego
   Shall be ours without pain,
  We shall take them as lightly as girls
   Pluck flowers after rain.

  And when they are ours in the end
   Perhaps after all
  The skies will not open for us
   Nor heaven be there at our call.

"It Will Not Change"

  It will not change now
   After so many years;
  Life has not broken it
   With parting or tears;
  Death will not alter it,
   It will live on
  In all my songs for you
   When I am gone.

Change

  Remember me as I was then;
   Turn from me now, but always see
  The laughing shadowy girl who stood
   At midnight by the flowering tree,
  With eyes that love had made as bright
  As the trembling stars of the summer night.

  Turn from me now, but always hear
   The muted laughter in the dew
  Of that one year of youth we had,
   The only youth we ever knew—
  Turn from me now, or you will see
  What other years have done to me.

Water Lilies

  If you have forgotten water lilies floating
   On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade,
  If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance,
   Then you can return and not be afraid.

  But if you remember, then turn away forever
   To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart,
  There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies,
   And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.

"Did You Never Know?"

  Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me—
   That your love would never lessen and never go?
  You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
   You were too young to know.

  Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it
   Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year—
  Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,
   I know your secret, my dear, my dear.

The Treasure

  When they see my songs
   They will sigh and say,
  "Poor soul, wistful soul,
   Lonely night and day."

  They will never know
   All your love for me
  Surer than the spring,
   Stronger than the sea;

  Hidden out of sight
   Like a miser's gold
  In forsaken fields
   Where the wind is cold.

The Storm

  I thought of you when I was wakened
   By a wind that made me glad and afraid
  Of the rushing, pouring sound of the sea
   That the great trees made.

  One thought in my mind went over and over
   While the darkness shook and the leaves were thinned—
  I thought it was you who had come to find me,
   You were the wind.

  Songs For Myself
      XII

The Tree

  Oh to be free of myself,
   With nothing left to remember,
  To have my heart as bare
   As a tree in December;

  Resting, as a tree rests
   After its leaves are gone,
  Waiting no more for a rain at night
   Nor for the red at dawn;

  But still, oh so still
   While the winds come and go,
  With no more fear of the hard frost
   Or the bright burden of snow;

  And heedless, heedless
   If anyone pass and see
  On the white page of the sky
   Its thin black tracery.

At Midnight

  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.

Song Making

  My heart cried like a beaten child
   Ceaselessly all night long;
  I had to take my own cries
   And thread them into a song.

  One was a cry at black midnight
   And one when the first cock crew—
  My heart was like a beaten child,
   But no one ever knew.

  Life, you have put me in your debt
   And I must serve you long—
  But oh, the debt is terrible
   That must be paid in song.

Alone

  I am alone, in spite of love,
   In spite of all I take and give—
  In spite of all your tenderness,
   Sometimes I am not glad to live.

  I am alone, as though I stood
   On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
  About me only swirling snow,
   Above me, endless space unfurled;

  With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
   And only my own spirit's pride
  To keep me from the peace of those
   Who are not lonely, having died.

Red Maples

  In the last year I have learned
  How few men are worth my trust;
  I have seen the friend I loved
  Struck by death into the dust,
  And fears I never knew before
  Have knocked and knocked upon my door—
  "I shall hope little and ask for less,"
  I said, "There is no happiness."

  I have grown wise at last—but how
  Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,
  Or keep the fragrance out of the rain
  Now that April is here again?
  When maples stand in a haze of fire
  What can I say to the old desire,
  What shall I do with the joy in me
  That is born out of agony?

Debtor

  So long as my spirit still
   Is glad of breath
  And lifts its plumes of pride
   In the dark face of death;
  While I am curious still
   Of love and fame,
  Keeping my heart too high
   For the years to tame,
  How can I quarrel with fate
   Since I can see
  I am a debtor to life,
   Not life to me?

The Wind in the Hemlock

  Steely stars and moon of brass,
  How mockingly you watch me pass!
  You know as well as I how soon
  I shall be blind to stars and moon,
  Deaf to the wind in the hemlock tree,
  Dumb when the brown earth weighs on me.

  With envious dark rage I bear,
  Stars, your cold complacent stare;
  Heart-broken in my hate look up,
  Moon, at your clear immortal cup,
  Changing to gold from dusky red—
  Age after age when I am dead
  To be filled up with light, and then
  Emptied, to be refilled again.

  What has man done that only he
  Is slave to death—so brutally
  Beaten back into the earth
  Impatient for him since his birth?

  Oh let me shut my eyes, close out
  The sight of stars and earth and be
  Sheltered a minute by this tree.
  Hemlock, through your fragrant boughs
  There moves no anger and no doubt,
  No envy of immortal things.
  The night-wind murmurs of the sea
  With veiled music ceaselessly,
  That to my shaken spirit sings.
  From their frail nest the robins rouse,
  In your pungent darkness stirred,
  Twittering a low drowsy word—
  And me you shelter, even me.
  In your quietness you house
  The wind, the woman and the bird.
  You speak to me and I have heard:

       If I am peaceful, I shall see
       Beauty's face continually;
       Feeding on her wine and bread
       I shall be wholly comforted,
       For she can make one day for me
       Rich as my lost eternity.

[End of original text.]

Biographical Note:

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933):

Teasdale was born in St. Louis, Missouri, where she attended a school that was founded by the grandfather of another great poet from St. Louis— T. S. Eliot. She later associated herself more with New York City. Her first book of poems was "Sonnets to Duse" (1907), but "Helen of Troy" (1911) was the true launch of her career, followed by "Rivers to the Sea" (1915), "Love Songs" (1917), "Flame and Shadow" (1920) and more. Her final volume, "Strange Victory", is considered by many to be predictive of her suicide in 1933.

——

From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917):

"Teasdale, Sara (Mrs. Ernst B. Filsinger). Born in St. Louis, Missouri,
August 10, 1884. Educated at private schools. She is the author
of "Sonnets to Duse", 1907; "Helen of Troy, and Other Poems", 1911;
"Rivers to the Sea", 1915; "Love Songs", 1917. Editor of
"The Answering Voice: A Hundred Love Lyrics by Women", 1917.
Miss Teasdale is a lyric poet of an unusually pure and spontaneous gift."