by Sara Teasdale
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain—
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten—
After the stillness, will spring come again?
Today is the anniversary of the death of the American lyric poet Sara Teasdale who died on this day, January 29, 1933.
In 1918, Teasdale was awarded the Columbia Poetry Prize, which would later become known as the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Teasdale was born into a privileged life in St Louis, Missouri. After writing many books of poetry, she ended up in New York, where, depressed and disillusioned, she took her own life on this day in 1933.
Her poem, The Garden, doesn’t require a great deal of analysis. Gardeners, especially during this time of year, will relate to her longing for spring.
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