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Sara Teasdale
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“One by one, like leaves from a tree, / All my faiths have forsaken me.”
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“Oh, beauty, are you not enough? / Why am I crying after love?”
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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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“I send you my thoughts — the air between us is laden, / My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds.”
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“I could not be so sure of Spring / Save that it sings in me.”
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“... life is a frail moth flying / Caught in the web of the years that pass ...”
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“Oh who can tell the range of joy / Or set the bounds of beauty?”
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“When I am dead and over me bright April / Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, / Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted, / I shall not care.”
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“The grass is waking in the ground, / Soon it will rise and blow in waves — / How can it have the heart to sway / Over the graves, / New graves?”
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“I found more joy in sorrow / Than you could find in joy.”
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“... beauty more than bitterness / Makes the heart break.”
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“I make the most of all that comes, / The least of all that goes.”
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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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“Of my own spirit let me be / in sole though feeble mastery.”
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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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“... 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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“I have no riches but my thoughts, / Yet these are wealth enough for me ...”
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“Oh, better than the minting / Of a gold-crowned king / Is the safe-kept memory / Of a lovely thing.”
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“Myriads with beating / Hearts of fire ...”
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“It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.”
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“Places I love come back to me like music, / Hush me and heal me when I am very tired ...”
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“Can I ever know you / Or you know me?”
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“My soul is a broken field / Ploughed by pain.”
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“Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.”
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“The world is tired, the year is old, / The faded leaves are glad to die.”
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“My theory is that poems are written because of a state of emotional irritation. It may be present for some time before the poet is conscious of what is tormenting him. The emotional irritation springs, probably, from subconscious combinations of partly forgotten thoughts and feelings. Coming together, like electrical currents in a thunder storm, they produce a poem. ... the poem is written to free the poet from an emotional burden.”
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“The poet should try to give his poem the quiet swiftness of flame, so that the reader will feel and not think while he is reading. But the thinking will come afterwards.”
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“It was not you, though you were near, / Though you were good to hear and see, / It was not earth, it was not heaven / It was myself that sang in me.”
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“There will be stars over the place forever ...”
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“Let them think I love them more than I do, / Let them think I care, though I go alone, / If it lifts their pride, what is it to me / Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone.”
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“What we never have had, remains; / It is the things we have that go.”
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“Stars over snow / And in the west a planet / Swinging below a star — / Look for a lovely thing and you will find it, / It is not far — / It never will be far.”
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“Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill, / In the dawn clouds flying, / How good to go, light into light, and still / Giving light, dying.”
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“No one worth possessing / Can be quite possessed.”
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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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“A delicate fabric of bird song / Floats in the air, / The smell of wet wild earth / Is everywhere.”
Sara Teasdale, U.S. poet
(1884 - 1933)
Full name: Sara Teasdale Filsinger.