Sara Teasdale Poems

My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one --
My songs do not belong to me.
...

Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me—
That your love would never lessen and never go?
You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
You were too young to know.
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Oh if I were the velvet rose
Upon the red rose vine,
I'd climb to touch his window
And make his casement fine.
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Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
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When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
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Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
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When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
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I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!
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I came from the sunny valleys
And sought for the open sea,
For I thought in its gray expanses
My peace would come to me.
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I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
...