In “Leaves,” Sara Teasdale imagines the loss of faith as a tree losing its leaves. The speaker’s beliefs fall away one by one, leaving her exposed, but that exposure becomes a kind of gift. While she had leaves, she was content to be a “silken-singing tree,” rustling prettily in the dark; she also admits the leafy crown blinded her, so she looked neither up nor down. Once the leaves are gone, she notices what was always there: stars burning “white and delicate red” above and sturdy grass growing beneath. The poem moves from quiet grief toward a clearer, calmer awareness. There is sadness in losing old comforts, but the final note is one of hard-won openness—seeing earth and sky for the first time.
Leaves — Summary
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 delight In the wistful heart of night-- I have lost the leaves that knew Touch of rain and weight of dew. Blinded by a leafy crown I 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.