Evening Poetry, April 5

There Will Come Soft Rains (War Time)

by 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;

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.

You can find this poem in The Four Seasons: Poems.

Evening Poetry, January 31

It’s the last day of January and here is a happy little poem about love and joy in the midst of winter. (It is in the public domain.)

A Winter Blue Jay

by Sara Teasdale

Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
Across the lake the skaters
Flew to and fro,
With sharp turns weaving
A frail invisible net.
In ecstasy the earth
Drank the silver sunlight;
In ecstasy the skaters
Drank the wine of speed;
In ecstasy we laughed
Drinking the wine of love.
Had not the music of our joy
Sounded its highest note?
But no,
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
“Oh look!”
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
Fearless and gay as our love,
A bluejay cocked his crest!
Oh who can tell the range of joy
Or set the bounds of beauty?

Evening Poetry, December 5

Stars

by Sara Teasdale

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

Witness

Of so much majesty.

You can find this poem in Favorite Poems Old and New.

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

Moonlight

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.