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

June Night

June Night
Oh Earth, you are too dear to-night,
How can I sleep while all around
Floats rainy fragrance and the far
Deep voice of the ocean that talks to the ground?
Oh Earth, you gave me all I have,
I love you, I love you, -- oh what have I
That I can give you in return --
Except my body after I die?
463

Jewls

Jewls
If I should see your eyes again,
I know how far their look would go --
Back to a morning in the park
With sapphire shadows on the snow.
Or back to oak trees in the spring
When you unloosed my hair and kissed
The head that lay against your knees
In the leaf shadow's amethyst.
And still another shining place
We would remember -- how the dun
Wild mountain held us on its crest
One diamond morning white with sun.
But I will turn my eyes from you
As women turn to put away
The jewels they have worn at night
And cannot wear in sober day.
366

In the End

In the End
All that could never be said,
All that could never be done,
Wait for us at last
Somewhere back of the sun;
All the heart broke to forego
Shall be ours without pain,
We shall take them as lightly as girls
Pluck flowers after rain.
And when they are ours in the end
Perhaps after all
The skies will not open for us
Nor heaven be there at our call.
467

If Death Is Kind

If Death Is Kind
Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
454

I Shall Not Care

I Shall Not Care
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
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.
462

Houses of Dreams

Houses of Dreams
You took my empty dreams
And filled them every one
With tenderness and nobleness,
April and the sun.
The old empty dreams
Where my thoughts would throng
Are far too full of happiness
To even hold a song.
Oh, the empty dreams were dim
And the empty dreams were wide,
They were sweet and shadowy houses
Where my thoughts could hide.
But you took my dreams away
And you made them all come true --
My thoughts have no place now to play,
And nothing now to do.
445

Gray Eyes

Gray Eyes
It was April when you came
The first time to me,
And my first look in your eyes
Was like my first look at the sea.
We have been together
Four Aprils now
Watching for the green
On the swaying willow bough;
Yet whenever I turn
To your gray eyes over me,
It is as though I looked
For the first time at the sea.
351

Four Winds

Four Winds
"Four winds blowing through the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth;
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."
434

Faces

Faces
People that I meet and pass
In the city's broken roar,
Faces that I lose so soon
And have never found before,
Do you know how much you tell
In the meeting of our eyes,
How ashamed I am, and sad
To have pierced your poor disguise?
Secrets rushing without sound
Crying from your hiding places --
Let me go, I cannot bear
The sorrow of the passing faces.
-- People in the restless street,
Can it be, oh can it be
In the meeting of our eyes
That you know as much of me?
375

Epitaph

Epitaph
Serene descent, as a red leaf's descending
When there is neither wind nor noise of rain,
But only autum air and the unending
Drawing of all things to the earth again.
So be it, let the snow fall deep and cover
All that was drunken once with light and air.
The earth will not regret her tireless lover,
Nor he awake to know she does not care.
336

Quotes

19

Videos

50

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