Careless forever, beautiful proud sea, You laugh in happy thunder all alone, You fold upon yourself, you dance your dance Impartially on drift-weed, sand or stone. You make us believe that we can outlive death, You make us for an instant, for your sake, Burn, like stretched silver of a wave, Not breaking, but about to break.
We walked in the dew, in the drowsy starlight To the sleepless, sleepy sound Of insects singing in the low sea-meadows For miles and miles around; With a wheel and a whirr the resistless rhythm Trembled incessantly; Antares was red in the sky before us, And behind us, the blackness of the sea.
The birds are gathering over the dunes, Swerving and wheeling in shifting flight, A thousand wings sweep darkly by Over the dunes and out of sight. Why did you bring me down to the sea With the gathering birds and the fish-hawk flying, The tide is low and the wind is hard, Nothing is left but the old year dying. I wish I were one of the gathering birds, Two sharp black wings would be good for me-- When nothing is left but the old year dying, Why did you bring me down to the sea?
Rebellion against death, the old rebellion Is over; I have nothing left to fight; Battles have always had their meed of music But peace is quiet as a windless night. Therefore I make no songs--I have grown certain Save when he comes too late, death is a friend, A shepherd leading home his flock serenely Under the planet at the evening’s end.
Only the wind knows he is gone, Only the wind grieves, The sun shines, the fields are sown, Sparrows mate in the eaves; But I heard the wind in the pines he planted And the hemlocks overhead, “His acres wake, for the year turns, But he is asleep,” it said.
I know a certain tune that my life plays; Over and over I have heard it start With all the wavering loveliness of viols And gain in swiftness like a runner’s heart. It climbs and climbs; I watch it sway in climbing High over time, high even over doubt, It has all heaven to itself--it pauses And faltering blindly down the air, goes out.
When I am not with you I am alone, For there is no one else And there is nothing That comforts me but you. When you are gone Suddenly I am sick, Blackness is round me, There is nothing left. I have tried many things, Music and cities, Stars in their constellations And the sea, But there is nothing That comforts me but you; And my poor pride bows down Like grass in a rain-storm Drenched with my longing. The night is unbearable, Oh let me go to you For there is no one, There is nothing To comfort me but you.
In Warsaw in Poland Half the world away, The one I love best of all Thought of me to-day;
I know, for I went Winged as a bird, In the wide flowing wind His own voice I heard;
His arms were round me In a ferny place, I looked in the pool And there was his face--
But now it is night And the cold stars say: "Warsaw in Poland Is half the world away."
Sara Teasdale was an American poet born in 1884 in St. Louis, Missouri, and she died in 1933. She published her first collection, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, in 1907, followed by several other volumes including Helen of Troy and Other Poems, Rivers to the Sea, and Love Songs. Her poetry frequently considers themes of love, beauty, nature, and the inevitability of change and death. She often wrote in traditional lyric forms, employing precise imagery and a musical quality. Teasdale's work gained wide popularity during her lifetime, and she received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1918 for Love Songs. Her poems are noted for their emotional directness and their exploration of both joy and sorrow. Although her prominence declined after her death, she remains recognized as a significant figure in early twentieth-century American poetry. Her later collection, Strange Victory, was published posthumously in 1933.
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