Sara Teasdale

(August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933 / Missouri / United States)

A Fantasy - Poem by Sara Teasdale

Her voice is like clear water
That drips upon a stone
In forests far and silent
Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus
Abloom by sacred streams
Beneath the temple arches
Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Her kisses are the roses
That glow while dusk is deep
In Persian garden closes
Where Quiet falls asleep.


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Read poems about / on: water, alone, dream, kiss, rose



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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