Sara Teasdale imagines her life as a tune she knows intimately. It begins again and again with the soft, wavering beauty of violins, then picks up speed like a runner’s heart. The speaker watches it climb higher and higher, rising above ordinary time and even above doubt, until it seems to hold all heaven to itself. Then, at that high point, it hesitates, loses its balance, and falls blindly out of the air. The feeling is fragile and bittersweet. There is real exaltation in the ascent, but it never lasts; the tune always breaks off. The speaker is not angry or shocked, only quietly aware of the pattern. The overall mood is tender melancholy, as if moments of transcendence are real but fleeting, beautiful precisely because they cannot be kept.
The Tune — Summary
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.