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The Collected Poems
collected poems...
224 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1937
45 people are currently reading
1435 people want to read
About the author
Sara Teasdale
208 books285 followersSara Teasdale was an American lyrical poet. She was born Sara Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri, and after her marriage in 1914 she went by the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger.
Teasdale's first poem was published in Reedy's Mirror, a local newspaper, in 1907. Her first collection of poems, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, was published that same year.
Teasdale's second collection of poems, Helen of Troy and Other Poems, was published in 1911. It was well received by critics, who praised its lyrical mastery and romantic subject matter.
In the years 1911 to 1914, Teasdale was courted by several men, including poet Vachel Lindsay, who was absolutely in love with her but did not feel that he could provide enough money or stability to keep her satisfied. She chose instead to marry Ernst Filsinger, who had been an admirer of her poetry for a number of years, on December 19, 1914.
Teasdale's third poetry collection, Rivers to the Sea, was published in 1915 and was a best seller, being reprinted several times. A year later, in 1916 she moved to New York City with Filsinger, where they resided in an Upper West Side apartment on Central Park West.
In 1918, her poetry collection Love Songs (released 1917) won three awards: the Columbia University Poetry Society prize, the 1918 Pulitzer Prize for poetry and the annual prize of the Poetry Society of America.
Filsinger was away a lot on business which caused a lot of loneliness for Teasdale. In 1929, she moved interstate for three months, thereby satisfying the criteria to gain a divorce. She did not wish to inform Filsinger, and only did so at the insistence of her lawyers as the divorce was going through - Filsinger was shocked and surprised.
Post-divorce, Teasdale remained in New York City, living only two blocks away from her old home on Central Park West. She rekindled her friendship with Vachel Lindsay, who was by this time married with children.
In 1933, she committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. Her friend Vachel Lindsay had committed suicide two years earlier. She is interred in the Bellefontaine Cemetery in St. Louis.
-taken from: Wikipedia
Teasdale's first poem was published in Reedy's Mirror, a local newspaper, in 1907. Her first collection of poems, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, was published that same year.
Teasdale's second collection of poems, Helen of Troy and Other Poems, was published in 1911. It was well received by critics, who praised its lyrical mastery and romantic subject matter.
In the years 1911 to 1914, Teasdale was courted by several men, including poet Vachel Lindsay, who was absolutely in love with her but did not feel that he could provide enough money or stability to keep her satisfied. She chose instead to marry Ernst Filsinger, who had been an admirer of her poetry for a number of years, on December 19, 1914.
Teasdale's third poetry collection, Rivers to the Sea, was published in 1915 and was a best seller, being reprinted several times. A year later, in 1916 she moved to New York City with Filsinger, where they resided in an Upper West Side apartment on Central Park West.
In 1918, her poetry collection Love Songs (released 1917) won three awards: the Columbia University Poetry Society prize, the 1918 Pulitzer Prize for poetry and the annual prize of the Poetry Society of America.
Filsinger was away a lot on business which caused a lot of loneliness for Teasdale. In 1929, she moved interstate for three months, thereby satisfying the criteria to gain a divorce. She did not wish to inform Filsinger, and only did so at the insistence of her lawyers as the divorce was going through - Filsinger was shocked and surprised.
Post-divorce, Teasdale remained in New York City, living only two blocks away from her old home on Central Park West. She rekindled her friendship with Vachel Lindsay, who was by this time married with children.
In 1933, she committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. Her friend Vachel Lindsay had committed suicide two years earlier. She is interred in the Bellefontaine Cemetery in St. Louis.
-taken from: Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 68 reviews
October 17, 2010
I love Sara Teasdale's poetry in small doses. If you read too much of it at once, though, it gets to be decidedly too much on the same theme.
This is the poem that introduced me to her work. I knew it by heart from that very first reading, and secretly (or not secretly, now), rather feel this way myself, sometimes. It speaks to a part of me that wants to be totally overwhelmed by love, anyway.
I Am Not Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
This is the poem that introduced me to her work. I knew it by heart from that very first reading, and secretly (or not secretly, now), rather feel this way myself, sometimes. It speaks to a part of me that wants to be totally overwhelmed by love, anyway.
I Am Not Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
January 12, 2021
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?
March 21, 2025
Methinks I did a disservice to Teasdale by reading her so close to Edna St. Vincent Millay. There are some poems I like here, but nothing that really blew me away. However, Teasdale has a simplicity, a lack of pretension, that sets her apart from other poets of her era. Some of her short nature poems are worth committing to memory. Honestly, there's a lot here that should be in children's treasuries of poetry. Her simple language, fidelity to meter, and natural imagery make her great for children. Teasdale has been on my radar for ages, so it's nice to have finally read her work.
"April" (48)
The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly by,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back-yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree--
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.
"The Coin" (123)
Into my heart's treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin--
Oh, better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
"The Fallen Star" (198)
I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on
And then forever to be gone.
"Moon's Ending" (205)
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.
"April" (48)
The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly by,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back-yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree--
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.
"The Coin" (123)
Into my heart's treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin--
Oh, better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
"The Fallen Star" (198)
I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on
And then forever to be gone.
"Moon's Ending" (205)
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.
March 28, 2012
Alone
I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.
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 unfurled;
With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
And only my own spirit's pride
To keep me from the peace of those
Who are not lonely, having died.
...........
Beautiful
I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.
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 unfurled;
With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
And only my own spirit's pride
To keep me from the peace of those
Who are not lonely, having died.
...........
Beautiful
sony-or-android
September 4, 2020Because it might have something like this in it:
Morning Song
Sara Teasdale
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.
Morning Song
Sara Teasdale
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.
May 26, 2019
3.5/5
I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,It's been a while since I sat down to the laptop and composed a review directly to the online, so if I wax profound, it's probably because I can afford to move much quicker in my thoughts than pen and paper affords. In any case, one of the benefits to reading multiple books at once is, despite definitive effort on my part to diversify my four to a satisfactory degree, I still stumble on significant commonalities, especially with my focus on reading works by women. Sara Teasdale won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry for a section of this collection way back when, and another book I'm reading appears on many a list of historical bestsellers and all that jazz. And yet, both works congregate around the 500 ratings range, which is pretty normal for the works I choose to read but rather sad for such previously lauded ones. To be honest, though, all that is a horrifically boring story when it comes to works by women, so all I'm doing is dropping some names for those who care about things such as Pulitzer prizes and best sellers. The reason why I'm reading Teasdale is because of a fantasy YA/NA work I read way back in the day that had a penchant for putting allusions in their chapter headings, and while she's not impressive overall, she has a number of solid portraits and one particularly superb rhapsody. All in all, she did much, much better in my estimation than the other collection I drew from that youthful reading, and if that gets others reading this, I'll be satisfied.
Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes;
I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul as it leads.
-'I Would Live in Your Love' (1911)
Midnight, and in the darkness not a sound,My favorite Teasdale piece is far too long to provide but more than an introductory excerpt as seen above, but the most accurate, full rendition of it I've found can be seen here. Unsurprisingly, it's the perfect example of how I vastly prefer Teasdale when she worries less about the rhyming and the meter and simply moves to the rhythm of idea and imagery. I likely did her a disservice by speeding through her as I did, but Dickinson, Rilke, and Rich survived such a brutal treatment, and while the crowd that craps on poetry is full of it, I also don't see the point on starving myself out on a single set of four to sixteen lines a day. The introduction was a bevy of welcome context that set my queer senses a' tingling in a way that was further buttressed by a decent number of works, so that and the fact that the author took her own life makes me wonder how I sensed, way back when in 2010, the ties that bind Teasdale and me (conspiratorially, the author of the best-seller I mentioned previously was far more than just possibly queer, which makes me proud). Not in any positively affirmative fashion, but I'm not the one voting for the sorts of laws that make people like Teasdale think that they have to kill themselves, so until that gets sorted, I'm more than free to practice self-care how I see fit. Teasdale may have been heterosexual as an arrow for all I know, but I've read enough lit, queer and non, to make me think otherwise, and that's something lovely and it's also something that breaks my heart. It makes me think how many other women rode the world with their writing and sank all the faster in the history books the more they diverged from the norm, continually reinforced by fear and artificially sanctioned by murder. All I can do at this point is to keep the conversation going and hope there are others who understand the need for refusing to see modern bookshelves as the result of 'survival of the fittest', as humans are not the ones who have been increasingly effectively culled by the status quo during the last century and a half.
So, with hushed breathing, sleeps the autumn night;
Only the white immortal stars shall know,
Here in the house with the low-lintelled door,
How, for the last time, I have lit the lamp...
-'Sappho' (1915)
I saw above a sea of hillsThis wasn't the best result that could have come from a book waiting nine years on the ol' TBR, but it was an enlightening experience, and I can definitely include Teasdale's 'Sappho' on the list of my favorite poems of all time. I have to give thanks to my personal peculiarities when it comes to picking and choosing my next reads, as I likely wouldn't have gone through the effort of checking this work out from the library (god knows why this of all things is available, as anything published before 1950 usually has to be an esteemed (white) boy classic to have survived the great library purges) for another pack of years or so. Slowly but surely I'm making my way through the works I added way back in 2010, and eventually I won't have any of those left, although the fact that two thirds of them are white boy books will slow me down a tad. For now, it's good to have a sense of closure, as I'm fairly certain that this was the last work I had added from that fantasy book of my youth (Tithe, if anyone's curious). Not on average the best poetry I've ever read, but far, far, far from the worst.
A solitary planet shine,
And there was no one near or far
To keep the world from being mine.
-'Autumn Dusk' (1926)
My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
And iridescent fire;
As the driftwood burning
Learned its jeweled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.
-'Driftwood' (1920)
July 19, 2018
Leaves
' ONE by one, like leaves from a tree,
All my faiths have forsaken me;
But the stars above my head
Burn in white and delicate red,
And beneath my feet the earth
Brings the sturdy grass to birth.
I who was content to be
But a silken-singing tree,
But a rustle of delightIn the wistful heart of night,
I have lost the leaves that knew
Touch of rain and weight of dew.
Blinded by a leafy crownI looked neither up nor down—
But the little leaves that die
Have left me room to see the sky;
Now for the first time I know
Stars above and earth below. '
In a Restaurant
'The darkened street was muffled with the snow,
The falling flakes had made your shoulders white,
And when we found a shelter from the night
Its glamor fell upon us like a blow.
The clash of dishes and the viol and bow
Mingled beneath the fever of the light.
The heat was full of savors, and the bright
Laughter of women lured the wine to flow.
A little child ate nothing while she sat
Watching a woman at a table there
Learn to kiss beneath a drooping hat.
The hour went by, we rose and turned to go,
The somber street received us from the glare,
And once more on your shoulders fell the snow'
' ONE by one, like leaves from a tree,
All my faiths have forsaken me;
But the stars above my head
Burn in white and delicate red,
And beneath my feet the earth
Brings the sturdy grass to birth.
I who was content to be
But a silken-singing tree,
But a rustle of delightIn the wistful heart of night,
I have lost the leaves that knew
Touch of rain and weight of dew.
Blinded by a leafy crownI looked neither up nor down—
But the little leaves that die
Have left me room to see the sky;
Now for the first time I know
Stars above and earth below. '
In a Restaurant
'The darkened street was muffled with the snow,
The falling flakes had made your shoulders white,
And when we found a shelter from the night
Its glamor fell upon us like a blow.
The clash of dishes and the viol and bow
Mingled beneath the fever of the light.
The heat was full of savors, and the bright
Laughter of women lured the wine to flow.
A little child ate nothing while she sat
Watching a woman at a table there
Learn to kiss beneath a drooping hat.
The hour went by, we rose and turned to go,
The somber street received us from the glare,
And once more on your shoulders fell the snow'
June 21, 2020
There Will Come Soft Rains
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
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
Sara Teasdale was born on August 8th in 1884 in St. Louis Missouri. In her short life of only thirty-eight years she published several books of poetry. In 1918 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her book of Love Songs. This poem was used by Ray Bradbury as the title of one of his short stories that are included his book, The Martian Chronicles.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
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
Sara Teasdale was born on August 8th in 1884 in St. Louis Missouri. In her short life of only thirty-eight years she published several books of poetry. In 1918 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her book of Love Songs. This poem was used by Ray Bradbury as the title of one of his short stories that are included his book, The Martian Chronicles.
January 25, 2015
IV. Wisdom
When I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
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.
The Wind in the Hemlock
Steely stars and moon of brass,
How mockingly you watch me pass!
You know as well as I how soon
I shall be blind to stars and moon,
Deaf to the wind in the hemlock tree,
Dumb when the brown earth weighs on me.
With envious dark rage I bear,
Stars, your cold complacent stare;
Heart-broken in my hate look up,
Moon, at your clear immortal cup,
Changing to gold from dusky red --
Age after age when I am dead
To be filled up with light, and then Emptied, to be refilled again.
What has man done that only he
Is slave to death -- so brutally
Beaten back into the earth
Impatient for him since his birth?
When I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
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.
The Wind in the Hemlock
Steely stars and moon of brass,
How mockingly you watch me pass!
You know as well as I how soon
I shall be blind to stars and moon,
Deaf to the wind in the hemlock tree,
Dumb when the brown earth weighs on me.
With envious dark rage I bear,
Stars, your cold complacent stare;
Heart-broken in my hate look up,
Moon, at your clear immortal cup,
Changing to gold from dusky red --
Age after age when I am dead
To be filled up with light, and then Emptied, to be refilled again.
What has man done that only he
Is slave to death -- so brutally
Beaten back into the earth
Impatient for him since his birth?
May 28, 2021
Review Pending
Sample Poems:
I Have Loved Hours At Sea
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour;
First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.
I have loved much and been loved deeply --
Oh when my spirit's fire burns low,
Leave me the darkness and the stillness,
I shall be tired and glad to go.
What Do I Care?
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
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.
Sample Poems:
I Have Loved Hours At Sea
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour;
First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.
I have loved much and been loved deeply --
Oh when my spirit's fire burns low,
Leave me the darkness and the stillness,
I shall be tired and glad to go.
What Do I Care?
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
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.
May 2, 2017
I fell in love with Teasdale's poetry as a teenager and wrote my bachelor's thesis on her. Some of these poems I know by heart; I've read them over and over again. She uses images, mostly of things in nature, to express emotions, and hers are either very happy or deep down in the dumps. My theory is that she may have been bipolar. The meaning of her poetry hits you as soon as you read it. I wish she'd lived longer and written more! Anyone who likes Teasdale may also enjoy the poetry of Christina Rossetti or Lizette Woodworth Reese.
October 2, 2007
I can't remember first reading Teasdale. I doubt I'll ever stop.
March 11, 2010
My aunt gave me this book when I was a teenager. Every poem i wrote for years after that sounded like Sara Teasdale. She perfect for romantic teenage girls.
November 26, 2021
A wonderful collection of poems from the early 20th century. I bought this solely for “There Will Come Soft Rains” and was delighted by the rest. Poetry from an older era, but relevant today.
December 5, 2012
Familiar only with her short lyrics, I did not know that Sara Teasdale attempted dramatic monologues in her early book Helen of Troy and Other Poems (1911). They are very readable though they are insufficiently dramatic. Marya Zaturenska, who wrote the insightful introduction, rightly describes Teasdale's work as poignant, but not tragic. Still, one comes across luminous passages like this one spoken by ill-fated Helen:
I will not give the grave my hands to hold,
My shining hair to light oblivion.
The great bulk of Collected Poems, however, comprises lyrics. Here are the anthology pieces such as "Coney Island" and "Let It Be Forgotten." Teasdale probably wrote too much and wrote too easily, for a lot of the work is unremarkable. Images of trees, flowers and birds abound. She achieves a more distinctive note when she turns to her contemporary life as an upper-middle-class woman for inspiration. So in the poem "Jewels" she compares turning her eyes from her lover to women putting away "The jewels they have worn at night/ And cannot wear in sober day." Another lyric "Thoughts" becomes the life lived in dressing rooms and nurseries.
When I can make my thoughts come forth
To walk like ladies up and down,
Each one puts on before the glass
Her most becoming hat and gown.
But oh, the shy and eager thoughts
That hide and will not get them dressed,
Why is it that they always seem
So much more lovely than the rest?
Teasdale stuck resolutely to traditional poetic forms and diction throughout her career. She liked some of the Modernists but was not influenced by them. "The Voice" is exceptional because it begins with a very modern juxtaposition of different kinds of diction.
Atoms as old as stars,
Mutation on mutation,
Millions and millions of cells
Dividing yet still the same,
From air and changing earth,
From ancient Eastern rivers,
From turquoise tropic seas,
Unto myself I came.
But it lapses into fusty Edwardian abstractions in the end, when the speaker hears the different voices of the atoms telling her, "Forever/ Seek for Beauty, she only/ Fights with man against Death!" She did not find her way out of her period style. She did not feel the need.
I will not give the grave my hands to hold,
My shining hair to light oblivion.
The great bulk of Collected Poems, however, comprises lyrics. Here are the anthology pieces such as "Coney Island" and "Let It Be Forgotten." Teasdale probably wrote too much and wrote too easily, for a lot of the work is unremarkable. Images of trees, flowers and birds abound. She achieves a more distinctive note when she turns to her contemporary life as an upper-middle-class woman for inspiration. So in the poem "Jewels" she compares turning her eyes from her lover to women putting away "The jewels they have worn at night/ And cannot wear in sober day." Another lyric "Thoughts" becomes the life lived in dressing rooms and nurseries.
When I can make my thoughts come forth
To walk like ladies up and down,
Each one puts on before the glass
Her most becoming hat and gown.
But oh, the shy and eager thoughts
That hide and will not get them dressed,
Why is it that they always seem
So much more lovely than the rest?
Teasdale stuck resolutely to traditional poetic forms and diction throughout her career. She liked some of the Modernists but was not influenced by them. "The Voice" is exceptional because it begins with a very modern juxtaposition of different kinds of diction.
Atoms as old as stars,
Mutation on mutation,
Millions and millions of cells
Dividing yet still the same,
From air and changing earth,
From ancient Eastern rivers,
From turquoise tropic seas,
Unto myself I came.
But it lapses into fusty Edwardian abstractions in the end, when the speaker hears the different voices of the atoms telling her, "Forever/ Seek for Beauty, she only/ Fights with man against Death!" She did not find her way out of her period style. She did not feel the need.
November 25, 2021
He descubierto a Sara Teasdale muy recientemente, a través de su poema 'Alchemy':
I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf
That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
To living gold.
Me atrajo muy pronto porque encontré algo con lo que, en cierto modo, me sentí identificada: la mirada, el anhelo, el deseo de convertir en profundo y bello a través de la poesía aquello que nos rodea, sobre todo el dolor cuando este sobreviene. Así pues, me procuré una recopilación de sus poemas y no me vi en absoluto defraudada. Hay unas cuantas cosas que me gustan en la poesía de Sara Teasdale; la principal, su mirada. Su poesía revela una sensibilidad profundísima y una sentimentalidad desbordante, por desgracia frustrada y, a la larga, mortal, por la sensación de aislamiento y soledad que la acompañaba. Me he sentido muy cerca de ella leyéndola.
En sentido poético, hay varias cosas que he apreciado y que han hecho que me llegue al corazón. Para empezar, su sencillez. Las imágenes que emplea son muy accesibles, casi siempre extraídas de la naturaleza, en un lenguaje clao. Muchos de sus poemas comienzan con descripciones del entorno, ya sea urbano o natural, y a través de ese boceto se abren paso sus sentimientos y pensamientos. Esto convierte sus textos en una especie de diálogo entre el mundo externo y su mundo interno: mundo externo que entra dentro de ella y se transforma con lo que ahí se encuentra para volver a salir marcado por su huella. En sus poemas entonces se ve el paso de las estaciones, del día y de la noche, ciclos que se suceden en consonancia con ella, de tal modo que el tiempo y sus fluctuaciones (a través de las ilusiones, pero, sobre todo, del recuerdo) atraviesan también sus palabras.
En síntesis, poesía sencilla pero profunda, cargada de anhelos y sensibilidad, con el toque amargo y melancólico de quien no tuvo donde depositar la selva exuberante que le palpitaba dentro.
I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf
That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
To living gold.
Me atrajo muy pronto porque encontré algo con lo que, en cierto modo, me sentí identificada: la mirada, el anhelo, el deseo de convertir en profundo y bello a través de la poesía aquello que nos rodea, sobre todo el dolor cuando este sobreviene. Así pues, me procuré una recopilación de sus poemas y no me vi en absoluto defraudada. Hay unas cuantas cosas que me gustan en la poesía de Sara Teasdale; la principal, su mirada. Su poesía revela una sensibilidad profundísima y una sentimentalidad desbordante, por desgracia frustrada y, a la larga, mortal, por la sensación de aislamiento y soledad que la acompañaba. Me he sentido muy cerca de ella leyéndola.
En sentido poético, hay varias cosas que he apreciado y que han hecho que me llegue al corazón. Para empezar, su sencillez. Las imágenes que emplea son muy accesibles, casi siempre extraídas de la naturaleza, en un lenguaje clao. Muchos de sus poemas comienzan con descripciones del entorno, ya sea urbano o natural, y a través de ese boceto se abren paso sus sentimientos y pensamientos. Esto convierte sus textos en una especie de diálogo entre el mundo externo y su mundo interno: mundo externo que entra dentro de ella y se transforma con lo que ahí se encuentra para volver a salir marcado por su huella. En sus poemas entonces se ve el paso de las estaciones, del día y de la noche, ciclos que se suceden en consonancia con ella, de tal modo que el tiempo y sus fluctuaciones (a través de las ilusiones, pero, sobre todo, del recuerdo) atraviesan también sus palabras.
En síntesis, poesía sencilla pero profunda, cargada de anhelos y sensibilidad, con el toque amargo y melancólico de quien no tuvo donde depositar la selva exuberante que le palpitaba dentro.
August 1, 2008
I stumbled upon Sara Teasdale's poetry around 7th grade when I was in my own poetic phase. Her work really moved me, as in adolescence we try to find such things, and inspired me more to continue writing. While I've abandoned by aspiring writer status, I still find her poetry to be simple and beautiful. Teasdale committed suicide, so many of her poems are about her struggle with life and death and the numerous moments in life that both excited and depressed her.
January 14, 2010
I found this author accidentially. I did a search on "Female Poets" and I just randomly picked the letter "T" and went down the list. I found her book and opened it. I fell in love instantly. I went to a local used bookstore called "Rust Belt Books" and asked if they had this book, they did not. Within a couple of days someone had brought in a copy. It was ment to be! I continue to reread the poems. Favorite section is "Flame and Shadows".
April 18, 2025
I love this woman. Her poetry is special. She's special. I want to sleep in her words. She writes in such a dreamlike yet understated manner with reverence for nature, the world, humans, and herself. If you are a yearner, nostalgic, and a bit self-critical, you would feel at home here. I'm convinced I've felt everything she's felt and more. I worked at my college library and had this checked out to me the entire time. Almost stole it, but alas
September 28, 2011
I was given an incredible gift by a friend of a 1946 print of this book. It is timeless.
August 29, 2011
This has become one of my favorite volumes of poetry.
March 1, 2011
My most favorite poet ever. This book is a treasure! Favorite poem: I am not yours.
August 26, 2024
I first came across Ms. Teasdale and her poetry thanks to the Library of America's tw0-volume collection of American Poets of the 20th Century. Frankly, as was the case with so many of the poets included in these pages, Ms. Teasdale had previously been unknown to me.
But I was so struck by the poignancy and "voice" of the person I encountered there that I purchased a 1938 edition of "The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale," inside the cover of which I discovered a charming nameplate telling me to whom this book had originally belonged and the notation "April, '38" as well. I also wanted to know more about her after I learned that she had tragically committed suicide in the 1920s at age 49.
The copy I have is well-worn and its pages' age-spots and yellowing testify to its long life.
I can understand how her poetry would have appealed to women, to youth, and to all who were romantically inclined, for her poems are largely about "loves" -- how many of whom they were and how many of them were "lost loves" remains unclear -- and the joys of being together and the sadness of being apart.
I'm sure that one of the reasons her poetry resonated with so many a century ago was because of how they reflected the larger angst of the early 20th century which, after all, had begun with a burst of enthusiasm and optimism: it was a time of rousing public speakers and hopeful Progressivism; of dashing Teddy Roosevelt and idealistic Woodrow Wilson; of great causes and several triumphs, including the gaining of the right to vote by women.
But it had ended with delusion and cynicism. The war to "end all wars" had exacted a ghastly cost, and it left the warring nations exhausted, bled dry, and the loss of a generation of young men, many of whom were of the class of expected "next leaders," the loss of whom would be felt disastrously as
those very nations stumbled through the 1920s and 1930s within a cloud of disillusionment and growing fear of yet another great war.
In the US, the disillusion and cynicism resulted in a flight from lofty goals and a retreat into "wine, women, and song." The "Roarin' 20s," indeed!
So much sound! So much glitter! So much emptiness!!!
This book also raises for me the interesting question of what "makes 'great' poetry"!
If by that phrase we mean the kind of ringing stuff by which a Wordsworth or a Bryan might render, then, no, this book is not filled with "great poetry."
But, on the other, if by "great poetry" we mean words and verses that both capture our common human experiences of the ups and downs of life, of our hopes, dreams, and disappointments, well, then, this book IS great poetry.
Her life, biographers have noted, was increasingly one that wrestled with depression, and one can fine abundant evidence of that in this volume. But it is the kind of disappointment that follows great things attempted and not because nothing was ventured at all.
After reading her poems I am certain that I would have liked this woman very much. And, even after a century has passed, I regret that she found her only option to be suicide.
But I was so struck by the poignancy and "voice" of the person I encountered there that I purchased a 1938 edition of "The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale," inside the cover of which I discovered a charming nameplate telling me to whom this book had originally belonged and the notation "April, '38" as well. I also wanted to know more about her after I learned that she had tragically committed suicide in the 1920s at age 49.
The copy I have is well-worn and its pages' age-spots and yellowing testify to its long life.
I can understand how her poetry would have appealed to women, to youth, and to all who were romantically inclined, for her poems are largely about "loves" -- how many of whom they were and how many of them were "lost loves" remains unclear -- and the joys of being together and the sadness of being apart.
I'm sure that one of the reasons her poetry resonated with so many a century ago was because of how they reflected the larger angst of the early 20th century which, after all, had begun with a burst of enthusiasm and optimism: it was a time of rousing public speakers and hopeful Progressivism; of dashing Teddy Roosevelt and idealistic Woodrow Wilson; of great causes and several triumphs, including the gaining of the right to vote by women.
But it had ended with delusion and cynicism. The war to "end all wars" had exacted a ghastly cost, and it left the warring nations exhausted, bled dry, and the loss of a generation of young men, many of whom were of the class of expected "next leaders," the loss of whom would be felt disastrously as
those very nations stumbled through the 1920s and 1930s within a cloud of disillusionment and growing fear of yet another great war.
In the US, the disillusion and cynicism resulted in a flight from lofty goals and a retreat into "wine, women, and song." The "Roarin' 20s," indeed!
So much sound! So much glitter! So much emptiness!!!
This book also raises for me the interesting question of what "makes 'great' poetry"!
If by that phrase we mean the kind of ringing stuff by which a Wordsworth or a Bryan might render, then, no, this book is not filled with "great poetry."
But, on the other, if by "great poetry" we mean words and verses that both capture our common human experiences of the ups and downs of life, of our hopes, dreams, and disappointments, well, then, this book IS great poetry.
Her life, biographers have noted, was increasingly one that wrestled with depression, and one can fine abundant evidence of that in this volume. But it is the kind of disappointment that follows great things attempted and not because nothing was ventured at all.
After reading her poems I am certain that I would have liked this woman very much. And, even after a century has passed, I regret that she found her only option to be suicide.
April 3, 2024
REVIEW OF THE 2017 "PANTIANOS CALSSICS" EDITION -- I paid money for this abomination so you don't have to. I absolutely LOVE Teasdale's lyric poetry, but friends, this ain't it. This publisher has taken public domain versions of some texts and published them in the cheapest way possible--tiny text squeezed into a double column format that ruins Teasdale's own formatting. There is no introduction and no index, nothing else at all, just something that looks like it came straight out of a laser printer running off Microsoft Word and glued together at home.
This isn't even a COMPLETE collected works. Not all of Teasdale's work is in the public domain, so the last third or so of her career is missing.
This book is a scam. If you want the complete collected poems of Sara Teasdale, get the original 1937 edition (reprinted in 1996). Do NOT reward people who pawn off cheap reprints like this.
This isn't even a COMPLETE collected works. Not all of Teasdale's work is in the public domain, so the last third or so of her career is missing.
This book is a scam. If you want the complete collected poems of Sara Teasdale, get the original 1937 edition (reprinted in 1996). Do NOT reward people who pawn off cheap reprints like this.
May 14, 2018
A modest sampling of Sara Teasdale’s oeuvre goes a long way.
Her poems are sincere, artfully crafted, with genuine passion. If you don’t mind the almost inescapable rhyming, so much the better. If you can’t get enough of the dawn, and the starry sky, love ( winning it and losing it), flowers, and Mother Nature, you’ll keep picking up this book, time after time.
I had to drawn the line, on page 74, when I got to “Leaves.” I was bone dry by the time I got to:
“One by one, like leaves from a tree,
All my faiths have forsaken me…”
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was a lyric poet whose poetry collections were bestsellers during her lifetime. Be that as it may…
Read more of my book reviews and poems here:
www.richardsubber.com
Her poems are sincere, artfully crafted, with genuine passion. If you don’t mind the almost inescapable rhyming, so much the better. If you can’t get enough of the dawn, and the starry sky, love ( winning it and losing it), flowers, and Mother Nature, you’ll keep picking up this book, time after time.
I had to drawn the line, on page 74, when I got to “Leaves.” I was bone dry by the time I got to:
“One by one, like leaves from a tree,
All my faiths have forsaken me…”
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was a lyric poet whose poetry collections were bestsellers during her lifetime. Be that as it may…
Read more of my book reviews and poems here:
www.richardsubber.com
August 27, 2021
Good poet, but read in small doses.
Sara Teasdale had a privileged but rather lonely life, and committed suicide at age 48. The early poems are all about romantic longing and unrequited love, while the last poems in the version I have are mostly about how terrible it is to grow old. I don't have much patience for either of those subjects, but I still like her as a poet. If you read one poem at a time, you find it well put and memorable; she is very musical. But reading the poems all at once, they seem too neat and sad and sentimental (although she was not especially sentimental for her generation); I think it's better to just pick up the book from time to time.
All the same I have remembered some of these poems for years. Well worth reading.
Sara Teasdale had a privileged but rather lonely life, and committed suicide at age 48. The early poems are all about romantic longing and unrequited love, while the last poems in the version I have are mostly about how terrible it is to grow old. I don't have much patience for either of those subjects, but I still like her as a poet. If you read one poem at a time, you find it well put and memorable; she is very musical. But reading the poems all at once, they seem too neat and sad and sentimental (although she was not especially sentimental for her generation); I think it's better to just pick up the book from time to time.
All the same I have remembered some of these poems for years. Well worth reading.
October 22, 2018
Teasdale was a lyric poet who's tragic suicide cut short a career of beautiful and witty work. One poem I found interesting was "To A Loose [promiscuous] Woman"
"My dear, your face is lovely
And you have lovely eyes
I do not cavil at your life
But only at your lies--
You are not brave, you are not wild
You merely ride the crest of fashion;
Ambition is your special ware
And you have dared to call it passion."
Something that while written 80 years ago, still rings true today. It's fashionable--dare to deny it! to have multiple sexual partners, and it's not brave or wild to do it.
"My dear, your face is lovely
And you have lovely eyes
I do not cavil at your life
But only at your lies--
You are not brave, you are not wild
You merely ride the crest of fashion;
Ambition is your special ware
And you have dared to call it passion."
Something that while written 80 years ago, still rings true today. It's fashionable--dare to deny it! to have multiple sexual partners, and it's not brave or wild to do it.
August 21, 2021
Why do most female poets kill themselves? I don't remember where I first heard of her (probably on Instagram or Tumblr, honestly), but I got the book in haste and now, years later, finally read it. I wish I remember what poem pulled me in, because I didn't feel that moved... There were a few poems I liked: the look, gifts, debt, new love and old, the kiss, the river, morning song, if death is kind, and I am not yours. But even so, I wasn't as moved as I often am.
This edition also needed a second edit, as there were several repeats. Even if poems were reused in her books, they shouldn't be in this anthology.
This edition also needed a second edit, as there were several repeats. Even if poems were reused in her books, they shouldn't be in this anthology.
April 29, 2023
Wonderful. Hard to believe this is the first time I've read a complete collection of Teasdale. Why did I wait so long?
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.
February 8, 2022
I think Sara Teasdale was a really powerful writer, I just personally found her poetry difficult to understand or empathize with at certain points (probably due to my limited life experience, and her diction from the time it was written). There were a handful of poems I did really enjoy and connect to, mainly the happy ones about love and nature.
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