Stresa
The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour.
Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.
Sara Teasdale
The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour.
Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.
The title places us in Stresa, a town on Lake Maggiore in northern Italy, and the poem feels like a quiet snapshot of that place. A moon climbs over the hills like a yellow flower, while the lake is a dreamy bride waiting for her moment. Everything is hushed, expectant, and softly lit.
Read the full summary