Happy Birthday, Sara

Today in 1884, in St Louis, Missouri, Sara Teasdale was born.

In the Train

Fields beneath a quilt of snow
   From which the rocks and stubble peep,
And in the west a shy white star
   That shivers as it wakes from sleep.

The restless rumble of the train,
   The drowsy people in the car,
Steel blue twilight in the world,
   And in my heart a timid star.


The Fountain

On in the deep blue night
   The fountain sang alone;
It sang to the drowsy heart
   Of the satyr carved in stone.

The fountain sang and sang
   But the satyr never stirred--
Only the great white moon
   In the empty heaven heard.

The fountain sang and sang
   And on the marble rim
The milk-white peacocks slept,
   Their dreams were strange and dim.


A Winter Bluejay

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?