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I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful when rain bends down the bough And I shall be more silent and cold hearted than you are now.

Sara Teasdale

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Sara Teasdale
Age: 48 †
Born: 1884
Born: August 8
Died: 1933
Died: January 29
Poet
Writer
St. Louis
Missouri
Sara Teasdale Filsinger
Sara Trevor Teasdale
Peace
Peaceful
Trees
Suicide
Rain
Leafy
Silent
Bough
Cold
Bends
Tree
Suicidal
Shall
Hearted

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Take love when love is given, But never think to find it A sure escape from sorrow Or a complete repose.
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I shall gather myself into my self again, I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
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Oh Earth, you gave me all I have, I love you, I love you, - oh what have IThat I can give you in return - Except my body after I die?
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Though I know he loves me, tonight my heart is sad his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams I had.
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My soul is a broken field, plowed by pain.
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I saw above a sea of hills A solitary planet shine, And there was no one, near or far, to keep the world from being mine.
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But oh, to him I loved Who loved me not at all,I owe the little open gate That led thru heaven's wall.
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There's nothing half so real in life as the things you've done... inexorably, unalterably done.
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The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew. Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing - My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring.
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No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.
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Love in my heart is a cry forever Lost as the swallow's flight, Seeking for you and never, never Stilled by the stars at night
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And for a breath of ecstasy / Give all you have been, or could be.
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When I can look life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise, life will have given me the truth, and taken in exchange - my youth.
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O lovely chance, what can I doTo give my gratefulness to you?You rise between myself and meWith a wise persistencyI would have broken body and soul,But by your grace, still I am whole.
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I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.
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A hush is over everything, Silent as women wait for love The world is waiting for the spring.
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My heart is a garden tired with autumn.
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Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
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Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.
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There is a quiet at the heart of love, And I have pierced the pain and come to peace.
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