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The window-lights, myriads and myriads,Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.

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
Wall
Myriads
Light
Bloom
Like
Lights
Climbing
Walls
Flowers
Window
Flower

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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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Old love, old love, / How can I be true? / Shall I be faithless to myself / Or to you?
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Life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things, blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings, and children's faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup.
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It will not hurt me when I am old, A running tide where moonlight burned Will not sting me like silver snakesThe years will make me sad and cold, It is the happy heart that breaks.
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It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.
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It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
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Life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass.
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The leaves fall patiently Nothing remembers or grieves The river takes to the sea The yellow drift of leaves.
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Spend all you have for loveliness.
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From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
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SONG You bound strong sandals on my feet, You gave me bread and wine, And sent me under sun and stars, For all the world was mine. Oh, take the sandals off my feet, You know not what you do, For all my world is in your arms, My sun and stars are you.
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No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.
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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.
Sara Teasdale
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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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A hush is over everything, Silent as women wait for love The world is waiting for the spring.
Sara Teasdale
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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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Life has loveliness to sell, / Music like a curve of gold, / Scent of pine trees in the rain, / Eyes that love you, arms that hold, / And for your spirit's still delight, / Holy thoughts that star the night.
Sara Teasdale
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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.
Sara Teasdale
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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 unfurledWith earth hidden and heaven hidden, And only my own spirit's prideTo keep me from the peace of those Who are not lonely, having died.
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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.
Sara Teasdale