My theory is that poems are written because of a state of emotional irritation. It may be present for some time before the poet is conscious of what is tormenting him. The emotional irritation springs, probably, from subconscious combinations of… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
I saw above a sea of hills A solitary planet shine, And there was no one, near or far, to keep the world from… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“In Warsaw in Poland Half the world away, The one I love best of all Thought of me to-day; I know, for I went… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
I am alone, as though I stood On the highest peak of the tired gray world,About me only swirling snow, Above me, endless space… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pool singing… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
I stood beside a hill Smooth with new-laid snow, A single star looked out From the cold evening glow. There was not other creature… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too, The world's heart breaks beneath its wars,All things are changed, save in the east,The faithful beauty… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“Oh, I could let the world go by, Its loud new wonders and its wars, BUt how will I give up the sky When… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“I gave my first love laughter, I gave my second tears, I gave my third love silence Through all the years. My first love… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“On a midsummer night, on a night that was eerie with stars, In a wood too deep for a single star to look through,… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“ At Night Love said, "Wake still and think of me," Sleep, "Close your eyes till break of day," But Dreams came by and… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
“It will not hurt me when I am old, A running tide where moonlight burned Will not sting me like silver snakes; The years… — Sara Teasdale Copy Share Image
