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
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
Will it always be like this until I am dead,
  Every spring must I bear it all again
With the first red haze of the budding maple boughs,
  And the first sweet-smelling rain?
Oh I am like a rock in the rising river
  Where the flooded water breaks with a low call—
Like a rock that knows the cry of the waters
  And cannot answer at all.