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(8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933 / Missouri)

Poems of Sara Teasdale

81. New Love and Old 12/31/2002
82. Night Song at Amalfi 12/31/2002
83. November 12/31/2002
84. Old Tunes 12/31/2002
85. On the Dunes 12/31/2002
86. Open Windows 12/31/2002
87. Other Men 12/31/2002
88. Pain 12/31/2002
89. Peace 12/31/2002
90. Pierrot 12/31/2002
91. Pity 12/31/2002
92. Places 12/31/2002
93. Red Maples 12/31/2002
94. Redbirds 12/31/2002
95. Riches 12/31/2002
96. September Midnights 12/31/2002
97. Sleepless 12/31/2002
98. Snowfall 12/31/2002
99. Song at Capri 12/31/2002
100. Song Making 12/31/2002

Dust

When I went to look at what had long been hidden,
A jewel laid long ago in a secret place,
I trembled, for I thought to see its dark deep fire --
But only a pinch of dust blew up in my face.

I almost gave my life long ago for a thing
That has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes --
It is strange how often a heart must be broken
Before the years can make it wise.

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