Evening Poetry, September 19

September Midnight

By Sara Teasdale

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, 
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, 
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, 
Ceaseless, insistent.  

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, 
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence 
Under a moon waning and worn, broken, 
Tired with summer.  

Let me remember you, voices of little insects, 
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, 
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us, 
Snow-hushed and heavy.  

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, 
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest, 
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, 
Lest they forget them.

You can find this poem in The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale.

Evening Poetry, September 1

Old Love and New

By Sara Teasdale

In my heart the old love  
Struggled with the new,  
It was ghostly waking  
All night through.  

Dear things, kind things  
That my old love said,  
Ranged themselves reproachfully  
Round my bed.  

But I could not heed them,  
For I seemed to see  
Dark eyes of my new love  
Fixed on me.  

Old love, old love,  
How can I be true?  
Shall I be faithless to myself  
Or to you?

You can find this in Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale.

Evening Poetry, May 17


by Sara Teasdale

It will not hurt me when I am old.

A running tide where moonlight burned

Will not sting me like silver snakes;

The years will make me sad and cold,

It is the happy heart that breaks.

The heart asks more than life can give,

When that is learned, then all is learned;

The waves break fold on jewelled fold,

But beauty itself is fugitive,

It will not hurt me when I am old.

You can find this poem in the collection The Penguin Anthology of 20th Century American Poetry.