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

Open Windows

Open Windows
Out of the window a sea of green trees
Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer,
They beckon and call me, "Come out in the sun!"
But I cannot answer.
I am alone with Weakness and Pain,
Sick abed and June is going,
I cannot keep her, she hurries by
With the silver-green of her garments blowing.
Men and women pass in the street
Glad of the shining sapphire weather,
But we know more of it than they,
Pain and I together.
They are the runners in the sun,
Breathless and blinded by the race,
But we are watchers in the shade
Who speak with Wonder face to face.
474

Old Tunes

Old Tunes
As the waves of perfume, heliotrope, rose,
Float in the garden when no wind blows,
Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows;
So the old tunes float in my mind,
And go from me leaving no trace behind,
Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.
But in the instant the airs remain
I know the laughter and the pain
Of times that will not come again.
I try to catch at many a tune
Like petals of light fallen from the moon,
Broken and bright on a dark lagoon,
But they float away -- for who can hold
Youth, or perfume or the moon's gold?
454

Night Song at Amalfi

Night Song at Amalfi
I asked the heaven of stars
What I should give my love --
It answered me with silence,
Silence above.
I asked the darkened sea
Down where the fishers go --
It answered me with silence,
Silence below.
Oh, I could give him weeping,
Or I could give him song --
But how can I give silence,
My whole life long?
430

Morning Song

Morning Song
A diamond of a morning
Waked me an hour too soon;
Dawn had taken in the stars
And left the faint white moon.
O white moon, you are lonely,
It is the same with me,
But we have the world to roam over,
Only the lonely are free.
468

Message

Message
I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!
It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so --
I send you back this word,
I know, I know!
387

Moonlight

Moonlight
It will not hurt me when I am old,
A running tide where moonlight burned
Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
It is the happy heart that breaks.
The heart asks more than life can give,
When that is learned, then all is learned;
The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
It will not hurt me when I am old.
433

May Day

May Day
A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.
Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.
Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;
For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?
357

May Wind

May Wind
I said, "I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more."
But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.
My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
"I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free."
372

Lights

Lights
When we come home at night and close the door,
Standing together in the shadowy room,
Safe in our own love and the gentle gloom,
Glad of familiar wall and chair and floor,
Glad to leave far below the clanging city;
Looking far downward to the glaring street
Gaudy with light, yet tired with many feet,
In both of us wells up a wordless pity;
Men have tried hard to put away the dark;
A million lighted windows brilliantly
Inlay with squares of gold the winter night,
But to us standing here there comes the stark
Sense of the lives behind each yellow light,
And not one wholly joyous, proud, or free.
449

Love and Death

Love and Death
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,
And shall my soul that lies within your hand
Remember nothing, as the blowing sand
Forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep
When winds along the darkened desert sweep?
Or would it still remember, tho' it spanned
A thousand heavens, while the planets fanned
The vacant ether with their voices deep?
Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,
Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see
The desolation of extinguished suns,
Nor fear the void wherethro' our planet runs,
For still together shall we go and not
Fare forth alone to front eternity.
375

Quotes

19

Videos

50

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