Sara Teasdale

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Who is Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri, and used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger after her marriage in 1914.

Biography Photograph of Sara Teasdale as a young girl Teasdale was born on August 8, 1884. She had poor health for much of her childhood, so she was home schooled until age 9. It was at age 10 that she w...
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Sara Teasdale Poems

  • Sara Teasdale
    Across the dimly lighted room
    The violin drew wefts of sound,
    Airily they wove and wound
    And glimmered gold against the gloom. ...
  • It Is Not A Word Spoken
    It is not a word spoken,
    Few words are said;
    Nor even a look of the eyes
    Nor a bend of the head, ...
  • A Song To Eleonora Duse In "francesca Da Rimini "
    Oh would I were the roses, that lie against her hands,
    The heavy burning roses she touches as she stands!
    Dear hands that hold the roses, where mine would love to be,
    Oh leave, oh leave the roses, and hold the hands of me! ...
  • Did You Never Know
    Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me,
    That your love would never lessen and never go?
    You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
    You were too young to know. ...
  • To A Picture Of Eleonora Duse As "francesca Da Rimini"
    Oh flower-sweet face and bended flower-like head!
    Oh violet whose purple cannot pale,
    Or forest fragrance ever faint or fail,
    Or breath and beauty pass among the dead! ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Sara Teasdale

Love 137 I Love You 137 Night 121 Heart 119 Sea 91 Long 72 Light 69 Never 68 Wind 68 Song 62


Sara Teasdale Quotes

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Comments about Sara Teasdale

  • Followmechina: i make the most of all that comes, and the least of all that goes. ~sara teasdale
  • Felwaalhudaithy: "softly the dream grows (…)" sara teasdale, from madeira from the sea in 'the collected poems of sara teasdale'
  • Followmechina: i make the most of all that comes, and the least of all that goes. ~sara teasdale
  • No_way_but_this: the look sara teasdale strephon kissed me in the spring, robin in the fall, but colin only looked at me and never kissed at all. strephon's kiss was lost in jest, robin's lost in play, but the kiss in colin's eyes haunts me night and day.
  • Maimounah_: it is not a word spoken— not even a look of the eyes, nor a bend of the head; but a hush of the heart that has too much to keep, only memories waking that sleep so light a sleep. -sara teasdale
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Poem of the day

Carl Sandburg Poem
House
 by Carl Sandburg

TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope.
'Here they went' and 'Here they went,' says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder.
One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.
...
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