sara teasdale

Let It Be Forgotten 

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,

Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.

Let it be forgotten forever and ever, 

Time is kind friend, he will make us old. 

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten

Long and long ago,

As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footwall

In a long-forgotten snow.

"SHE WHO COULD BIND YOU"

She who could bind you
    Could bind fire to a wall;
She who could bind you
    Could hold a waterfall;
She who could keep you
    Could keep the wind from blowing;
On a warm spring night
    With a low moon glowing

The Gift

What can I give you, my lord, my lover, 

You who have given the world to me, 

Showed me the light and the joy that cover 

The wild sweet earth and restless sea?
All that I have are gifts of your giving— 
If I gave them again, you would find them old, 
And your soul would weary of always living
Before the mirror my life would hold.
What shall I give you, my lord, my lover? 
The gift that breaks the heart in me: 
I bid you awake at dawn and discover 
I have gone my way and left you free.

I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you, 

Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon, 
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit, beautiful and bright, 
Yet I am, who I long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love--put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind, 
Swept by the tempest of your love, 
A taper in the rushing wind.

I Shall not Care
When I am dead and over me bright April,            
     Shakes out her rain-drenched hair
Tho' you shall lean above me broken-hearted      
      I shall not care. 

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful       
     When rain bends down the bough, 
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted      
      Than you are now.

One of my favorite discoveries of 2011. She is at once cunning, clever, cynical and romantic, and it makes my little heart sing. On the eighteenth of November, rather than working on necessary projects, I went to a nearby Starbucks and sat on a big cushion and read through eighty-eight of her poems and wept at it all. It seems I will always most identify with female poets who are fervent in love and also wind up committing suicide?