A Maiden

Oh if I were the velvet rose
Upon the red rose vine,
Id climb to touch his window
And make his casement fine.

And if I were the little bird
That twitters on the tree,
All day Id sing my love for him
Till he should harken me.

But since I am a maiden
I go with downcast eyes,
And he will never hear the songs
That he has turned to sighs.

And since I am a maiden
My love will never know
That I could kiss him with a mouth
More red than roses blow.

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri and her first poem publication was in 1907. Teasdale's style was characterized by clarity and simplicity, often focusing on themes of love, nature, and death. She won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize for her 1917 collection Love Songs. Unfortunately, she faced severe health issues and depression towards the end of her life, leading to her suicide in 1933.

Sara Teasdale

Broadway

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Carpenter's Son

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Immortal

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Tree Of Song

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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The Maiden I Love

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting.
How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove!
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He said he loved me! Then he called my hair
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Come Into The Garde, Maud

Come into the garden, Maud,
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I am here at the gate alone;
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And the musk of the roses blown.

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I said to the lily, "There is but one
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Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!
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The sky is unfleck'd overhead, -
Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray, -
The earth to the heavens is wed,
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Lost is their sweetness upon me;
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Reign in my garden of roses;
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