Poem of the Day

This poem was shared by a reader.

Debt
By Sara Teasdale

What do I owe to you
   Who loved me deep and long?
You never gave my spirit wings
   Nor gave my heart a song.

But oh, to him I loved,
   Who loved me not at all,
I owe the little open gate
   That led through heaven’s wall.

This was a reader suggested poem (thanks!). I’ve never actually read a collection of Sara Teasdale’s work, but I have been impressed by everything of hers that I’ve read. This is no exception.

Jewels
Sara Teasdale

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.

Saved again by a generous poetry-sharer! I love just about everything I’ve ever read by Sara Teasdale, which is sadly, not nearly enough. I need to get a collection or two of hers, I think. Thanks for introducing me to a new (to me) poem of hers.

There Will Come Soft Rains
By Sara Teasdale

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.

I love it when readers suggest poems! This is a great spring poem, though spring arrived some time ago in Austin.

To Arcturus Returning
By Sara Teasdale

Arcturus, with the spring returning.
I love you best; I cannot tell
Why, save that your recurrent burning
Is spring’s most punctual miracle.

You bring with you all longed-for things,
Birds with their song, leaves with their stir,
And you, beyond all other stars,
Have been man’s comforter.

Current Tea: chocolate almond cookies (black tea, orange peels, cocoa, coconut, almond bits, peanut bits, rose blossoms, flavoring)

It’s fairly rare that I don’t post the PotD until nighttime, so I thought I’d go with this one to commemorate my laziness today.

Moonlight
By Sara Teasdale

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.

Seeing as how it is a spring night (in Austin at least), I thought I’d share this one.

Spring Night
By Sara Teasdale

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 are 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?

Sara Teasdale really writes lovely poetry.

Those Who Love
By Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

I really like Sara Teasdale. I will definitely be reading more of her stuff and adding it to my list.

After Love
By Sara Teasdale

There is no magic any more,
   We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
   Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
   There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
   Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
   And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
   For all its peace.

I just came across this poem online.

The Old Maid
By Sara Teasdale

I saw her in a Broadway car,
The woman I might grow to be;
I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me.
Her hair was dull and drew no light,
And yet its color was as mine;
Her eyes were strangely like my eyes,
Tho’ love had never made them shine.

Her body was a thing grown thin,
Hungry for love that never came;
Her soul was frozen in the dark,
Unwarmed forever by love’s flame.

I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me—
His eyes were magic to defy
The woman I shall never be.

I really need to get a book of Sara Teasdale’s poetry…

The Answer
By Sara Teasdale

When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:

“Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion,
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy.
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her—
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy.”

I can’t imagine feeling this way, but I really love this poem.

The Solitary
By Sara Teasdale

My heart has grown rich with the passing of years,
   I have less need now than when I was young
To share myself with every comer
   Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue.

It is one to me that they come or go
   If I have myself and the drive of my will,
And strength to climb on a summer night
   And watch the stars swarm over the hill.

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.

I think it’s time for a not-so-happy poem. (P.S. This is my 400th post in eight months. Kinda scary…)

I Shall Not Care
By Sara Teasdale

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.