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Sara Teasdale
Heaven-invading hills are drowned
In wide moving waves of mist,
Phlox before my door are wound
In dripping wreaths of amethyst.
Ten feet away the solid earth
Changes into melting cloud,
There is a hush of pain and mirth,
No bird has heart to speak aloud.
Here in a world without a sky,
Without the ground, without the sea,
The one unchanging thing is I,
Myself remains to comfort me.
to see what little I am
to see an absent satisfaction
close to the dirt
to see inside a machine
to see what things
make a man himself
to see how fine the machines are
to see me wanting like a bad king
to possess death
alone abroad
I find my unself
find my if picture
like another face
I will make my go home
fit my tomorrow journey
if I am my picture
I am no more
no face is finished
my own grown fat and home
to the general tow of people
and yet part sea
public as a door
my private self
because I would be
anything I might do
heaven be off
let me fit myself
talking about abuse
I see myself
served by every body
the only oven
long in bed with
my fool self—
a bottle falling out
Ugly as a faction,
I took to the heat
and the devil saw me.
He gave me
myself.
Morning is a clear house,
afternoon a wardrobe.
At supper, I looked over
what I took to be Susan,
but it proved to be me.
a rank, thin life I live
nothing to care for but myself
sea surge in a drowned mouth
capable of being what I do
I used to wake without my work
without a double all day
sitting in me
All self-things change.
To see and be seen
is to be taken prisoner.
The land would not answer the world.
Take no ice for ungrateful pains.