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Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love -But you will not assuage him. He aloneOf all the gods will take no gifts from men.

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
Songs
Song
Death
Take
Make
Assuage
Would
Gifts
Men
Gods
Love
Sing

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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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My heart is a garden tired with autumn.
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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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The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die.
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No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.
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Spend all you have for loveliness.
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The window-lights, myriads and myriads,Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.
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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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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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One by one, like leaves from a tree, / All my faiths have forsaken me.
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What we have never had, remains It is the things we have that go.
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But what do I care, for love will be over so soon, Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by, For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent, It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
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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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A hush is over everything, Silent as women wait for love The world is waiting for the spring.
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The roofs are shining from the rain, The sparrows twitter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by. Yet the back yards are bare and brown With only one unchanging tree- I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me.
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I shall not let a sorrow die Until I find the heart of it, Nor let a wordless joy go by Until it talks to me a bit.
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Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.
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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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I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.
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I try to catch at many a tuneLike petals of light fallen from the moon,Broken and bright on a dark lagoon,But they float away - for who can holdYouth, or perfume or the moon's gold?
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