Share this page :
Sara Teasdale (8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933 / Missouri)
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Poems by Sara Teasdale : 10 / 147
"Only in Sleep"
Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten --
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild --
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?
Sara Teasdale
Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Read poems about / on: child, sleep, house, children, hair, dream, night, time
Poems by Sara Teasdale : 10 / 147
People who read Sara Teasdale also read
Top 500 Poems
-
Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelou
-
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost
-
If You Forget Me
Pablo Neruda
-
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou
-
Dreams
Langston Hughes
-
Annabel Lee
Edgar Allan Poe
-
If
Rudyard Kipling
-
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
-
Invictus
William Ernest Henley
-
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Maya Angelou
What a pointless poem! And it is not beautifully constructed - she alters the rhyme scheme in the second verse. That The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces is not surprising as she is dreaming of them as children. It would be a nightmare if they were children and had aged faces.
Oh what a beautiful poem of friends and days long past..a joy to read.. :)
Perfectly constructed. Delightful!
A beautiful poem, a masterpiece. One of my all time favourites.
Indeed dream serves as Time Machine to the past as well as the future too! Nice question to think about!
Strangely familiar. I too dream as though a child or teenager. A soft, touching piece which bridges the century between her childhood and our today.
Yes, they do, my sweet little child! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
notbad but in my opinion only satisfactory- I have read better poems on this site that I would rather see being poem of the week.
anonymous
Perhaps, in sleep-and the requirements of poetic theme-time, and rhyme schemes, are forgotten...
The middle verse jars a bit because of the absence of the rhyme pattern set in the first. One wonders at the personal context of such a sad retrospective poem.