Sarah Teasdale

Sarah Teasdale

1884–1933 · lived 48 years -- --

Sara Teasdale was an influential American lyric poet celebrated for her emotionally resonant and accessible verse. Her work often explores themes of love, nature, loss, and the inner life of women with a delicate yet powerful voice. Teasdale's poems, characterized by their musicality and lyrical beauty, garnered significant popularity during her lifetime and continue to be cherished for their timeless exploration of the human heart.

n. 1884-08-08, St. Louis · m. 1933-01-29, Nova Iorque

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A November Night

A November Night
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street --
Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
And you could play with it. You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious. We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you -- four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade. The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay -- and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake --
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little. How I long to take


One from the cold black water -- new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl -- if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night --
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem -- but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone --
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone. We two alone!
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Sara Teasdale was an American lyric poet. She was born Sara Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri. She later married and became known as Sara Teasdale Filsinger. Her family background was rooted in the American Midwest, with her father being a successful businessman. She was of English and Scottish descent. She was an American national and wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Teasdale grew up in a comfortable middle-class home in St. Louis. She was a delicate child and suffered from various ailments, which led to her being educated primarily at home. She received instruction from tutors and pursued extensive self-study, developing a deep love for literature and poetry. Her early readings included the works of Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, and Christina Rossetti. She was also influenced by the natural world, spending much time outdoors.

Literary trajectory

Teasdale began writing poetry at a young age, with her first published poem appearing in 'Reedy's Mirror' in 1907. Her first collection, 'Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems', was published in 1907. She gained wider recognition with 'Rivers to the Sea' (1915), which became a bestseller. Her subsequent collections, including 'Love Songs' (1917), 'Flame and Shadow' (1920), and 'Dark of the Moon' (1926), further solidified her reputation as a leading American poet. She was an active participant in the literary circles of her time.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Teasdale's major works include 'Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems' (1907), 'The Anemone' (1911), 'Rivers to the Sea' (1915), 'Love Songs' (1917), 'Flame and Shadow' (1920), 'Helen of Troy and Other Poems' (1922), and 'Dark of the Moon' (1926). Her dominant themes revolve around love, loss, nature, the passage of time, and the introspective experiences of women. Her style is characterized by its lyrical beauty, musicality, clarity, and emotional directness. She frequently employed traditional forms like the sonnet but also wrote in free verse. Her poetic voice is often tender, reflective, and deeply personal, conveying a sense of quiet strength and vulnerability. Her language is precise and evocative, with a focus on imagery drawn from nature.

Cultural and historical context

Teasdale was active during the early 20th century, a period of significant change in American society and literature. She was associated with the Imagist movement, though her style was more consistently lyrical and romantic than strictly Imagist. She was a contemporary of poets like Amy Lowell, H.D., and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Her work reflected the broader cultural interest in introspection and the personal lives of women that was emerging during this era.

Personal life

Teasdale's personal life was marked by periods of intense joy and profound sorrow. Her marriage to Ernest B. Filsinger, an executive, was initially happy but later became strained, contributing to themes of loneliness and heartbreak in her poetry. She struggled with health issues throughout her life. Her deep connection to nature and her contemplative nature informed her creative process.

Recognition and reception

Teasdale achieved considerable popularity and critical acclaim during her lifetime. 'Rivers to the Sea' was a bestseller, and her poems were widely published in popular magazines. She was the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1918 for her collection 'Love Songs'. Her accessible style and relatable themes made her a beloved figure among readers, though some critics sometimes viewed her work as overly sentimental.

Influences and legacy

Teasdale was influenced by earlier Romantic poets and by the Imagist movement. Her lyrical style and focus on emotion influenced subsequent generations of poets, particularly women poets. Her exploration of feminine experience and her accessible yet profound verse have ensured her enduring place in American poetry. Her work continues to be studied for its emotional depth and skillful use of language.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Teasdale's poetry is often interpreted through the lens of feminist literary criticism, examining her portrayal of women's experiences, desires, and emotional lives. Her themes of love and loss are explored with a nuanced understanding of human relationships. Critics have noted the delicate balance she strikes between personal confession and universal sentiment.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Teasdale was known for her beauty and was once considered a potential film actress. She was a close friend of Vachel Lindsay, another prominent poet, though their relationship was complex. She was also an avid gardener, and her deep connection to nature was a significant source of inspiration.

Death and memory

Sara Teasdale died by suicide in 1933, a tragic end to a life marked by both poetic brilliance and personal struggle. Her collected poems have been published posthumously, ensuring her legacy and continued appreciation by readers and scholars.

Poems

74

Summer Night, Riverside

Summer Night, Riverside
In the wild, soft summer darkness
How many and many a night we two together
Sat in the park and watched the Hudson
Wearing her lights like golden spangles
Glinting on black satin.
The rail along the curving pathway
Was low in a happy place to let us cross,
And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom
Sheltered us,
While your kisses and the flowers,
Falling, falling,
Tangled my hair. . . .
The frail white stars moved slowly over the sky.
And now, far off
In the fragrant darkness
The tree is tremulous again with bloom,
For June comes back.
To-night what girl
Dreamily before her mirror shakes from her hair
This year's blossoms, clinging in its coils?
463

Spring Torrents

Spring Torrents
Will it always be like this until I am dead,
Every spring must I bear it all again
With the first red haze of the budding maple boughs,
And the first sweet-smelling rain?
Oh I am like a rock in the rising river
Where the flooded water breaks with a low call --
Like a rock that knows the cry of the waters
And cannot answer at all.
394

Spring Night

Spring Night
The park is filled with night and fog,
The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.
Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.
Oh, is it not enough to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O, beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice, and eyes
To take earth's wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied, --
I, for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light, --
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?
465

Song Making

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.
429

September Midnights

September Midnights
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, borken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
338

Snowfall

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.
488

Places

Places
Places I love come back to me like music,
Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming
In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music --
Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.
452

Redbirds

Redbirds
Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;
Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,
Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow --
Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton's Hill?
403

Pierrot

Pierrot
Pierrot stands in the garden
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know
That Pierrot loves his music, --
But I love Pierrot.
435

Pain

Pain
Waves are the sea's white daughters,
And raindrops the children of rain,
But why for my shimmering body
Have I a mother like Pain?
Night is the mother of stars,
And wind the mother of foam --
The world is brimming with beauty,
But I must stay at home.
458

Quotes

19

Videos

50

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