Mest leste ▸
Sara Teasdale
The Seine flows out of the mist
And into the mist again;
The trees lean over the water,
The small leaves fall like rain.
The leaves fall patiently,
Nothing remembers or grieves;
The river takes to the sea
The yellow drift of the leaves.
Milky and cold is the air,
The leaves float with the stream,
The river comes out of a sleep
And goes away in a dream.
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
where am I to look for quiet
and not see a road
walking the fields till dark
I rage more than ever in the mist
a black mist of pain
more than most believe
church after church seems
to hate me
I am a dog, come to kill
that tip of the tail again
and dig the hole deeper.
Strange to so trepan
my own never mind.
My mist is rich.
All morning
in a mad heat—
mist on the fields.
Agog at the morning mist,
I met the sun at the gate
where a barber trimmed me.
for days I have thought
how to get money
to borrow money
son of my money
a rose is a rogue
for money
words dissolve into mist and I must
pay money to eat
get money
my little trouble
making me lie at the office—
morning mist
I troubled my hands
with rogue handwriting.
Let posterity know how
the King desired coffee.
I heard for certain that
it would prove small pleasure.
I gave a bottle of mist
at a great loss.
When I was young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom,
And for every kind there was a face,
And a voice that has sounded in my room
Across the sill from the outer gloom.
Each came singly unto her place,
But all came every night with the mist;
And often they brought so much to say
Of things of moment to which, they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
That the stars were almost faded away
Before the last went, heavy with dew,
deep mist &
the coot dips its head
into marsh water