Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale
This is the spot where I will lie
When life has had enough of me,
These are the grasses that will blow
Above me like a living sea.
These gay old lilies will not shrink
To draw their life from death of mine,
And I will give my body's fire
To make blue flowers on this vine.
"O Soul," I said, "have you no tears?
Was not the body dear to you?"
I heard my soul say carelessly,
"The myrtle flowers will grow more blue."