Sara Teasdale Quotes

Oh, beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?

Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. Oh, beauty are you not enough?

The greenish sky glows up in misty reds, The purple shadows turn to brick and stone, The dreams wear thin, men turn upon their beds, And hear the milk-cart jangle by alone.

I hope that when he smiles at me He does not guess my joy and pain, For if he did, he is too kind To ever look my way again.

There is no sign of leaf or bud, A hush is over everything — Silent as women wait for love, The world is waiting for the spring.

With the man I love who loves me not I walked in the street-lamps' flare — But oh, the girls who can ask for love In the lights of Union Square.

For tho' I know he loves me, To-night my heart is sad; His kiss was not so wonderful As all the dreams I had.

Perhaps when all the world is bare And cruel winter holds the land, The Love that finds no place to hide Will run and catch my hand. <p> I shall not care to have him then, I shall be bitter and a-cold — It grows too late for frolicking When all the world is old.<p>Then little hiding Love, come forth, Come forth before the autumn goes, And let us seek thro' ruined paths The garden's last red rose.

I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea, Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes.

I may not speak till Eros' torch is dim, The god is bitter and will have it so.

Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love — But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.

All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, And many mouths must drain the dregs of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.

We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine, To think upon her sorrows, but her joys What nun could ever know a tithing of? The precious hours she watched above His sleep Were worth the fearful anguish of the end. Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all.

Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no more To thee, God's daughter, powerful as God, It is that thou hast made my life too sweet To hold the added sweetness of a song. There is a quiet at the heart of love, And I have pierced the pain and come to peace.

And as I played, a child came thro' the gate, A boy who looked at me without a word, As tho' he saw stretch far behind my head Long lines of radiant angels, row on row. That day we spoke a little, timidly, And after that I never heard the voice That sang so many songs for love of me.