Showing posts with label Sara Teasdale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sara Teasdale. Show all posts

Stars (Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933)

Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,

And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;

Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;

Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,

And I know that I
Am honored to be
Of so much majesty.
From: Flame and Shadow (1920)

Classic Poetry: "There Will Come Soft Rains," Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;


Terrible Beauty


And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.


"August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" (Based on Ray Bradbury's short story, which includes Teasdale's poem)


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