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
WE held the book together timidly,
Whose antique music in an alien tongue
Once rose among the dew-drenched vines that hung
Beneath a high Castilian balcony.
I felt the lute strings' ancient ecstasy,
And while he read, my love-filled heart was stung,
And throbbed, as where an ardent bird has clung
The branches tremble on a blossomed tree.
Oh lady for whose sake the song was made,
Laid long ago in some still cypress shade,
Divided from the man who longed for thee,
Here in a land whose name he never heard,
His song brought love as April brings the bird,
And not a breath divides my love from me!