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Sara Teasdale
The dreams of my heart and my mind pass,
Nothing stays with me long,
But I have had from a child
The deep solace of song;
If that should ever leave me,
Let me find death and stay
With things whose tunes are played out and forgotten
Like the rain of yesterday.
Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue
Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere
Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share,
Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue
In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to
Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair
Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear--
The old dreams of comfort bringing anew.
For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams,
And in those clouds a drowsing man may find
All that was ever sweet to his starved mind,
Heart long denied--dear friends, hills, horses, trees,
Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ...
The bane of care, the spur to memories.
We grow more reconciled to Nature's ways,
And more responsive, with the passing years,
Finding in them a solace for the fears
Engendered by the thought of lessening days;
There comes a sense of comradeship that stays
The lonely questioning heart, and more endears
The deep and changeful beauty that appears
More deep and beautiful with every phase.
The brooding tenderness of earth and sky
Becomes more palpable and to our need,
As if some friendly consciousness were nigh —
Some mother element but dimly guessed,
That, gathering nearer, gently sought to lead
Weary and wandering children back to rest.
In summer when my life was cold,
Frozen too weary for desire,
I warmed my heart at your marigold,
As at a fire.
It was the first flower from your new ground,
The first gold largess from the care
And loving, you had planted there,
And in the walks around.
I stole your garden's coin to buy content,
A vision of black earth dug deep for flowers.
Through sunny self-forgetful hours.
With joys, God meant.
In summer when my life was cold,
Frozen too weary for desire,
I warmed my heart at your marigold.
As at a fire.