"Way we were" or "Way we are"? Life's punches: way of making one wretchedly sad and emotionally ragged. She could write like hell...but I wouldn't call it "therapy".
Lives Matter- ALL
😥💔🖖💞🙏💞🖖💔😥
Oh those messy poets with their messy lives, too intense to go on to live them:
-*☆ SARA TEASDALE ☆*-
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
AI Overview:
Sara Teasdale (18841933), an acclaimed American lyricist best known for her impassioned musical verses, made literary history by winning the very first Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1918 for her 1917 collection, Love Songs.
[Wikipedia]
Born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, Teasdale became a prominent figure in early 20th-century literary scene. She was a key member in Harriet Monroe's Poetry magazine in Chicago, Illinois.
[Poetry Foundation]
The poems focused on the female perspective, romance, and tension between passion and independence. In later life, she struggled with severe depression and chronic illness.
[Poetry Foundation]
Explore her life, works, legacy further with some of these resources:
St. Louis Heritage: Discover her Midwestern roots on the St. Louis Walk of Fame profile.
https://stlouiswalkoffame.org/sara-teasdale/
___________________
Academy of American Poets
https://poets.org/poet/sara-teasdale
___________________
Poetry Foundation
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sara-teasdale
■■■■■■■■■■■
First published poem:
Guenevere
I was a queen, and I have lost my crown;
A wife, and I have broken all my vows;
A lover, and I ruined him I loved:
There is no other havoc left to do.
A little month ago I was a queen,
And mothers held their babies up to see
When I came riding out of Camelot.
The women smiled, and all the world smiled too.
And now, what woman's eyes would smile on me?
I still am beautiful, and yet what child
Would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing,
An angel, clad in gold and miniver?
The world would run from me, and yet am I
No different from the queen they used to love.
If water, flowing silver over stones,
Is forded, and beneath the horses' feet
Grows turbid suddenly, it clears again,
And men will drink it with no thought of harm.
Yet I am branded for a single fault.
I was the flower amid a toiling world,
Where people smiled to see one happy thing,
And they were proud and glad to raise me high;
They only asked that I should be right fair,
A little kind, and gowned wondrously,
And surely it were little praise to me
If I had pleased them well throughout my life.
I was a queen, the daughter of a king.
The crown was never heavy on my head,
It was my right, and was a part of me.
The women thought me proud, the men were kind,
And bowed right gallantly to kiss my hand,
And watched me as I passed them calmly by,
Along the halls I shall not tread again.
What if, to-night, I should revisit them?
The warders at the gates, the kitchen-maids,
The very beggars would stand off from me,
And I, their queen, would climb the stairs alone,
Pass through the banquet-hall, a loathed thing,
And seek my chambers for a hiding-place,
And I should find them but a sepulchre,
The very rushes rotted on the floors,
The fire in ashes on the freezing hearth.
I was a queen, and he who loved me best
Made me a woman for a night and day,
And now I go unqueened forevermore.
A queen should never dream on summer eves,
When hovering spells are heavy in the dusk:
I think no night was ever quite so still,
So smoothly lit with red along the west,
So deeply hushed with quiet through and through.
And strangely clear, and deeply dyed with light,
The trees stood straight against a paling sky,
With Venus burning lamp-like in the west.
I walked alone amid a thousand flowers,
That drooped their heads and drowsed beneath the dew,
And all my thoughts were quieted to sleep.
Behind me, on the walk, I heard a step
I did not know my heart could tell his tread,
I did not know I loved him till that hour.
Within my breast I felt a wild, sick pain,
The garden reeled a little, I was weak,
And quick he came behind me, caught my arms,
That ached beneath his touch; and then I swayed,
My head fell backward and I saw his face.
All this grows bitter that was once so sweet,
And many mouths must drain the dregs of it.
But none will pity me, nor pity him
Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
One of her most acclaimed works:
THERE WILL COME SOFT RAIN
THERE WILL COME SOFT RAIN 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.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
"I SHALL NOT CARE"
WHEN I AM DEAD AND OVER ME BRIGHT APRIL
SHAKES OUT HER RAIN-DRENCHED HAIR,
THOUGH YOU SHOULD LEAN ABOVE ME BROKEN-HEARTED,
I SHALL NOT CARE.
I SHALL HAVE PEACE, AS LEAFY TREES ARE PEACEFUL
WHEN RAIN BENDS DOWN THE BOUGH,
AND I SHALL BE MORE SILENT AND COLD-HEARTED
THAN YOU ARE NOW.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
Poetry by Clara Mae Gregory
Read 11 times
Written on 2026-06-03 at 15:43
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
BACK IN THE TIME MACHINE TO 1917
BACK IN THE TIME MACHINE TO 1917Lives Matter- ALL
😥💔🖖💞🙏💞🖖💔😥
Oh those messy poets with their messy lives, too intense to go on to live them:
-*☆ SARA TEASDALE ☆*-
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
AI Overview:
Sara Teasdale (18841933), an acclaimed American lyricist best known for her impassioned musical verses, made literary history by winning the very first Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1918 for her 1917 collection, Love Songs.
[Wikipedia]
Born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, Teasdale became a prominent figure in early 20th-century literary scene. She was a key member in Harriet Monroe's Poetry magazine in Chicago, Illinois.
[Poetry Foundation]
The poems focused on the female perspective, romance, and tension between passion and independence. In later life, she struggled with severe depression and chronic illness.
[Poetry Foundation]
Explore her life, works, legacy further with some of these resources:
St. Louis Heritage: Discover her Midwestern roots on the St. Louis Walk of Fame profile.
https://stlouiswalkoffame.org/sara-teasdale/
___________________
Academy of American Poets
https://poets.org/poet/sara-teasdale
___________________
Poetry Foundation
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sara-teasdale
■■■■■■■■■■■
First published poem:
Guenevere
I was a queen, and I have lost my crown;
A wife, and I have broken all my vows;
A lover, and I ruined him I loved:
There is no other havoc left to do.
A little month ago I was a queen,
And mothers held their babies up to see
When I came riding out of Camelot.
The women smiled, and all the world smiled too.
And now, what woman's eyes would smile on me?
I still am beautiful, and yet what child
Would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing,
An angel, clad in gold and miniver?
The world would run from me, and yet am I
No different from the queen they used to love.
If water, flowing silver over stones,
Is forded, and beneath the horses' feet
Grows turbid suddenly, it clears again,
And men will drink it with no thought of harm.
Yet I am branded for a single fault.
I was the flower amid a toiling world,
Where people smiled to see one happy thing,
And they were proud and glad to raise me high;
They only asked that I should be right fair,
A little kind, and gowned wondrously,
And surely it were little praise to me
If I had pleased them well throughout my life.
I was a queen, the daughter of a king.
The crown was never heavy on my head,
It was my right, and was a part of me.
The women thought me proud, the men were kind,
And bowed right gallantly to kiss my hand,
And watched me as I passed them calmly by,
Along the halls I shall not tread again.
What if, to-night, I should revisit them?
The warders at the gates, the kitchen-maids,
The very beggars would stand off from me,
And I, their queen, would climb the stairs alone,
Pass through the banquet-hall, a loathed thing,
And seek my chambers for a hiding-place,
And I should find them but a sepulchre,
The very rushes rotted on the floors,
The fire in ashes on the freezing hearth.
I was a queen, and he who loved me best
Made me a woman for a night and day,
And now I go unqueened forevermore.
A queen should never dream on summer eves,
When hovering spells are heavy in the dusk:
I think no night was ever quite so still,
So smoothly lit with red along the west,
So deeply hushed with quiet through and through.
And strangely clear, and deeply dyed with light,
The trees stood straight against a paling sky,
With Venus burning lamp-like in the west.
I walked alone amid a thousand flowers,
That drooped their heads and drowsed beneath the dew,
And all my thoughts were quieted to sleep.
Behind me, on the walk, I heard a step
I did not know my heart could tell his tread,
I did not know I loved him till that hour.
Within my breast I felt a wild, sick pain,
The garden reeled a little, I was weak,
And quick he came behind me, caught my arms,
That ached beneath his touch; and then I swayed,
My head fell backward and I saw his face.
All this grows bitter that was once so sweet,
And many mouths must drain the dregs of it.
But none will pity me, nor pity him
Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
One of her most acclaimed works:
THERE WILL COME SOFT RAIN
THERE WILL COME SOFT RAIN 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.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
"I SHALL NOT CARE"
WHEN I AM DEAD AND OVER ME BRIGHT APRIL
SHAKES OUT HER RAIN-DRENCHED HAIR,
THOUGH YOU SHOULD LEAN ABOVE ME BROKEN-HEARTED,
I SHALL NOT CARE.
I SHALL HAVE PEACE, AS LEAFY TREES ARE PEACEFUL
WHEN RAIN BENDS DOWN THE BOUGH,
AND I SHALL BE MORE SILENT AND COLD-HEARTED
THAN YOU ARE NOW.
■■■■■■■■■■■■
Poetry by Clara Mae Gregory
Read 11 times
Written on 2026-06-03 at 15:43
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
