II

Interlude: Songs out of Sorrow

I. Spirit's House

  From naked stones of agony
  I will build a house for me;
  As a mason all alone
  I will raise it, stone by stone,
  And every stone where I have bled
  Will show a sign of dusky red.
  I have not gone the way in vain,
  For I have good of all my pain;
  My spirit's quiet house will be
  Built of naked stones I trod
  On roads where I lost sight of God.

II. Mastery

  I would not have a god come in
  To shield me suddenly from sin,
  And set my house of life to rights;
  Nor angels with bright burning wings
  Ordering my earthly thoughts and things;
  Rather my own frail guttering lights
  Wind blown and nearly beaten out;
  Rather the terror of the nights
  And long, sick groping after doubt;
  Rather be lost than let my soul
  Slip vaguely from my own control—
  Of my own spirit let me be
  In sole though feeble mastery.

III. Lessons

  Unless I learn to ask no help
   From any other soul but mine,
  To seek no strength in waving reeds
   Nor shade beneath a straggling pine;
  Unless I learn to look at Grief
   Unshrinking from her tear-blind eyes,
  And take from Pleasure fearlessly
   Whatever gifts will make me wise—
  Unless I learn these things on earth,
  Why was I ever given birth?

IV. Wisdom

  When I have ceased to break my wings
  Against the faultiness of things,
  And learned that compromises wait
  Behind each hardly opened gate,
  When I can look Life in the eyes,
  Grown calm and very coldly wise,
  Life will have given me the Truth,
  And taken in exchange—my youth.

V. In a Burying Ground

  This is the spot where I will lie
   When life has had enough of me,
  These are the grasses that will blow
   Above me like a living sea.

  These gay old lilies will not shrink
   To draw their life from death of mine,
  And I will give my body's fire
   To make blue flowers on this vine.

  "O Soul," I said, "have you no tears?
   Was not the body dear to you?"
  I heard my soul say carelessly,
   "The myrtle flowers will grow more blue."

VI. Wood Song

  I heard a wood thrush in the dusk
   Twirl three notes and make a star—
  My heart that walked with bitterness
   Came back from very far.

  Three shining notes were all he had,
   And yet they made a starry call—
  I caught life back against my breast
   And kissed it, scars and all.

VII. Refuge

  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 own fault's slavery,
  If I can sing, I still am free.

  For with my singing I can make
  A refuge for my spirit's sake,
  A house of shining words, to be
  My fragile immortality.

III

The Flight

  Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
  Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
  Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain—
  But what if I heard my first love calling me again?

  Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
  Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
  Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door—
  But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?

Dew

  As dew leaves the cobweb lightly
   Threaded with stars,
  Scattering jewels on the fence
   And the pasture bars;
  As dawn leaves the dry grass bright
   And the tangled weeds
  Bearing a rainbow gem
   On each of their seeds;
  So has your love, my lover,
   Fresh as the dawn,
  Made me a shining road
   To travel on,
  Set every common sight
   Of tree or stone
  Delicately alight
   For me alone.

To-night

  The moon is a curving flower of gold,
   The sky is still and blue;
  The moon was made for the sky to hold,
   And I for you.

  The moon is a flower without a stem,
   The sky is luminous;
  Eternity was made for them,
   To-night for us.

Ebb Tide

  When the long day goes by
   And I do not see your face,
  The old wild, restless sorrow
   Steals from its hiding place.

  My day is barren and broken,
   Bereft of light and song,
  A sea beach bleak and windy
   That moans the whole day long.

  To the empty beach at ebb tide,
   Bare with its rocks and scars,
  Come back like the sea with singing,
   And light of a million stars.

I Would Live in Your Love

  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 would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,
  I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul
    as it leads.

Because

  Oh, because you never tried
  To bow my will or break my pride,
  And nothing of the cave-man made
  You want to keep me half afraid,
  Nor ever with a conquering air
  You thought to draw me unaware—
  Take me, for I love you more
  Than I ever loved before.

  And since the body's maidenhood
  Alone were neither rare nor good
  Unless with it I gave to you
  A spirit still untrammeled, too,
  Take my dreams and take my mind
  That were masterless as wind;
  And "Master!" I shall say to you
  Since you never asked me to.

The Tree of Song

  I sang my songs for the rest,
   For you I am still;
  The tree of my song is bare
   On its shining hill.

  For you came like a lordly wind,
   And the leaves were whirled
  Far as forgotten things
   Past the rim of the world.

  The tree of my song stands bare
   Against the blue—
  I gave my songs to the rest,
   Myself to you.

The Giver

  You bound strong sandals on my feet,
   You gave me bread and wine,
  And sent me under sun and stars,
   For all the world was mine.

  Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
   You know not what you do;
  For all my world is in your arms,
   My sun and stars are you.

April Song

  Willow, in your April gown
   Delicate and gleaming,
  Do you mind in years gone by
   All my dreaming?

  Spring was like a call to me
   That I could not answer,
  I was chained to loneliness,
   I, the dancer.

  Willow, twinkling in the sun,
   Still your leaves and hear me,
  I can answer spring at last,
   Love is near me!

The Wanderer

  I saw the sunset-colored sands,
   The Nile like flowing fire between,
   Where Rameses stares forth serene,
  And Ammon's heavy temple stands.

  I saw the rocks where long ago,
   Above the sea that cries and breaks,
   Swift Perseus with Medusa's snakes
  Set free the maiden white like snow.

  And many skies have covered me,
   And many winds have blown me forth,
   And I have loved the green, bright north,
  And I have loved the cold, sweet sea.

  But what to me are north and south,
   And what the lure of many lands,
   Since you have leaned to catch my hands
  And lay a kiss upon my mouth.

The Years

  To-night I close my eyes and see
  A strange procession passing me—
  The years before I saw your face
  Go by me with a wistful grace;
  They pass, the sensitive, shy years,
  As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears.

  The years went by and never knew
  That each one brought me nearer you;
  Their path was narrow and apart
  And yet it led me to your heart—
  Oh, sensitive, shy years, oh, lonely years,
  That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears.

Enough

  It is enough for me by day
   To walk the same bright earth with him;
  Enough that over us by night
   The same great roof of stars is dim.

  I do not hope to bind the wind
   Or set a fetter on the sea—
  It is enough to feel his love
   Blow by like music over me.

Come

  Come, when the pale moon like a petal
   Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
  Come with arms outstretched to take me,
   Come with lips pursed up to cling.

  Come, for life is a frail moth flying,
   Caught in the web of the years that pass,
  And soon we two, so warm and eager,
   Will be as the gray stones in the grass.

Joy

  I am wild, I will sing to the trees,
   I will sing to the stars in the sky,
  I love, I am loved, he is mine,
   Now at last I can die!

  I am sandaled with wind and with flame,
   I have heart-fire and singing to give,
  I can tread on the grass or the stars,
   Now at last I can live!

Riches

  I have no riches but my thoughts,
   Yet these are wealth enough for me;
  My thoughts of you are golden coins
   Stamped in the mint of memory;

  And I must spend them all in song,
   For thoughts, as well as gold, must be
  Left on the hither side of death
   To gain their immortality.

Dusk in War Time

  A half-hour more and you will lean
   To gather me close in the old sweet way—
  But oh, to the woman over the sea
   Who will come at the close of day?

  A half-hour more and I will hear
   The key in the latch and the strong, quick tread—
  But oh, the woman over the sea
   Waiting at dusk for one who is dead!

Peace

  Peace flows into me
   As the tide to the pool by the shore;
   It is mine forevermore,
  It will not ebb like the sea.

  I am the pool of blue
   That worships the vivid sky;
   My hopes were heaven-high,
  They are all fulfilled in you.

  I am the pool of gold
   When sunset burns and dies—
   You are my deepening skies;
  Give me your stars to hold.

Moods

  I am the still rain falling,
   Too tired for singing mirth—
  Oh, be the green fields calling,
   Oh, be for me the earth!

  I am the brown bird pining
   To leave the nest and fly—
  Oh, be the fresh cloud shining,
   Oh, be for me the sky!

Houses of Dreams

  You took my empty dreams
   And filled them every one
  With tenderness and nobleness,
   April and the sun.

  The old empty dreams
   Where my thoughts would throng
  Are far too full of happiness
   To even hold a song.

  Oh, the empty dreams were dim
   And the empty dreams were wide,
  They were sweet and shadowy houses
   Where my thoughts could hide.

  But you took my dreams away
   And you made them all come true—
  My thoughts have no place now to play,
   And nothing now to do.

Lights

  When we come home at night and close the door,
   Standing together in the shadowy room,
   Safe in our own love and the gentle gloom,
  Glad of familiar wall and chair and floor,

  Glad to leave far below the clanging city;
   Looking far downward to the glaring street
   Gaudy with light, yet tired with many feet,
  In both of us wells up a wordless pity;

  Men have tried hard to put away the dark;
   A million lighted windows brilliantly
      Inlay with squares of gold the winter night,
  But to us standing here there comes the stark
      Sense of the lives behind each yellow light,
   And not one wholly joyous, proud, or 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 I, who 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 a rushing wind.

Doubt

  My soul lives in my body's house,
   And you have both the house and her—
  But sometimes she is less your own
   Than a wild, gay adventurer;
  A restless and an eager wraith,
   How can I tell what she will do—
  Oh, I am sure of my body's faith,
   But what if my soul broke faith with you?

The Wind

  A wind is blowing over my soul,
   I hear it cry the whole night through—
  Is there no peace for me on earth
   Except with you?

  Alas, the wind has made me wise,
   Over my naked soul it blew,—
  There is no peace for me on earth
   Even with you.

Morning

  I went out on an April morning
   All alone, for my heart was high,
  I was a child of the shining meadow,
   I was a sister of the sky.

  There in the windy flood of morning
   Longing lifted its weight from me,
  Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering,
   Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.

Other Men

  When I talk with other men
   I always think of you—
  Your words are keener than their words,
   And they are gentler, too.

  When I look at other men,
   I wish your face were there,
  With its gray eyes and dark skin
   And tossed black hair.

  When I think of other men,
   Dreaming alone by day,
  The thought of you like a strong wind
   Blows the dreams away.

Embers

  I said, "My youth is gone
   Like a fire beaten out by the rain,
  That will never sway and sing
   Or play with the wind again."

  I said, "It is no great sorrow
   That quenched my youth in me,
  But only little sorrows
   Beating ceaselessly."

  I thought my youth was gone,
   But you returned—
  Like a flame at the call of the wind
   It leaped and burned;

  Threw off its ashen cloak,
   And gowned anew
  Gave itself like a bride
   Once more to you.

Message

  I heard a cry in the night,
   A thousand miles it came,
  Sharp as a flash of light,
   My name, my name!

  It was your voice I heard,
   You waked and loved me so—
  I send you back this word,
   I know, I know!

The Lamp

  If I can bear your love like a lamp before me,
  When I go down the long steep Road of Darkness,
  I shall not fear the everlasting shadows,
      Nor cry in terror.

  If I can find out God, then I shall find Him,
  If none can find Him, then I shall sleep soundly,
  Knowing how well on earth your love sufficed me,
      A lamp in darkness.

IV

A November Night

       There! See the line of lights,
       A chain of stars down either side the street—
       Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
       A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
       And you could play with it. You smile at me
       As though I were a little dreamy child
       Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
       The people on the street look up at us
       All envious. We are a king and queen,
       Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
       We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
       How still you are! Have you been hard at work
       And are you tired to-night? It is so long
       Since I have seen you—four whole days, I think.
       My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
       Like early flowers in an April meadow,
       And I must give them to you, all of them,
       Before they fade. The people I have met,
       The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
       That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
       That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
       Haunting or gay—and yet they all grow real
       And take their proper size here in my heart
       When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
       A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
       That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
       Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
       Lying below us with a million lamps
       Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
       We look down on them as God must look down
       On constellations floating under Him
       Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
       Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
       All black and blossomless this winter night,
       But we bring April with us, you and I;
       We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
       I think that every path we ever took
       Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
       Delicate gold that only fairies see.
       When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
       And come out on the drowsy park, they look
       Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
       They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
       Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
       About it in a windy ring and make
       A circle round it only they can cross
       When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake—
       Do you remember how we watched the swans
       That night in late October while they slept?
       Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
       The lake bears only thin reflected lights
       That shake a little. How I long to take
       One from the cold black water—new-made gold
       To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
       There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
       Oh, dimmer than a pearl—if you stoop down
       Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .

       There was a new frail yellow moon to-night—
       I wish you could have had it for a cup
       With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .

       How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
       They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
       What if the air should grow so dimly white
       That we would lose our way along the paths
       Made new by walls of moving mist receding
       The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
       That was our bench the time you said to me
       The long new poem—but how different now,
       How eerie with the curtain of the fog
       Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
       There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
       Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
       Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
       To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
       I used to wonder how the park would be
       If one night we could have it all alone—
       No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
       To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
       And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
       We are alone now in a fleecy world;
       Even the stars have gone. We two alone!

[End of Love Songs.]

{As an item of interest to the reader, the following, which was at the end of this edition, is included. Only the advertisement for the same author is included}.

By the same author

Rivers to the Sea

"There is hardly another American woman-poet whose poetry is generally known and loved like that of Sara Teasdale. 'Rivers to the Sea', her latest volume of lyrics, possesses the delicacy of imagery, the inward illumination, the high vision that characterize the poetry that will endure the test of time."—'Review of Reviews'.

"'Rivers to the Sea' is a book of sheer delight. . . . Her touch turns everything to song."—Edward J. Wheeler, in 'Current Opinion'.

"Sara Teasdale's lyrics have the clarity, the precision, the grace and fragrance of flowers."—Harriet Monroe, in 'Poetry'.

"Sara Teasdale has a genius for the song, for the perfect lyric, in which the words seem to have fallen into place without art or effort."—Louis Untermeyer, in 'The Chicago Evening Post'.

"'Rivers to the Sea' is the best book of pure lyrics that has appeared in English since A. E. Housman's 'A Shropshire Lad'."—William Marion Reedy, in 'The Mirror'.

"'Rivers to the Sea' is the most beautiful book of pure lyrics that has come to my hand in years."—'Los Angeles Graphic'.

"Sara Teasdale sings about love better than any other contemporary
American poet."—'The Boston Transcript'.

"'Rivers to the Sea' is the most charming volume of poetry that has appeared on either side of the Atlantic in a score of years."—'St. Louis Republic'.

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933):

Teasdale was born in St. Louis, Missouri, where she attended a school
that was founded by the grandfather of another great poet from St.
Louis—T. S. Eliot. She later associated herself more with New York
City.

Her first book of poems was "Sonnets to Duse" (1907), [at least one poem in the current volume, "Faults", is from this book,] but "Helen of Troy" (1911) was the true launch of her career, followed by "Rivers to the Sea" (1915), "Love Songs" (1917), "Flame and Shadow" (1920) and more. Her final volume, "Strange Victory", is considered by many to be predictive of her suicide in 1933.