Because

Oh, because you never tried
To bow my will or break my pride,
And nothing of the cave-man made
You want to keep me half afraid,
Nor ever with a conquering air
You thought to draw me unaware,
Take me, for I love you more
Than I ever loved before.

And since the body's maidenhood
Alone were neither rare nor good
Unless with it I gave to you
A spirit still untrammeled, too,
Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.

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

Sunset: St. Louis

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Night In Arizona

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Tree

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Wayfarer

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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All beauty calls you to me, and you seem,
Past twice a thousand miles of shifting sea,
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Here on the ships sun-smitten topmost deck,
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I feel your spirit and I close my eyes,
Knowing the bright hair blowing in the sun,
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She is too kind, I think, for mortal things,
Too gentle for the gusty ways of earth;
God gave to her a shy and silver mirth,
And made her soul as clear
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In sheltered hollows all the sunny year,
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With stars like drops of dew.

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Preference.

Not in scorn do I reprove thee,
Not in pride thy vows I waive,
But, believe, I could not love thee,
Wert thou prince, and I a slave.
These, then, are thine oaths of passion?
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Have I ever met thy gaze;
Though, full oft, with daring boldness,
Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.
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This my coldness all untrue,
But a mask of frozen seeming,
Hiding secret fires from view.
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Sappho III

The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep,
And in my Lesbos, over leagues of sea,
The temples glimmer moon-wise in the trees.
Twilight has veiled the little flower-face
Here on my heart, but still the night is kind
And leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast.
Am I that Sappho who would run at dusk
Along the surges creeping up the shore
When tides came in to ease the hungry beach,
And running, running till the night was black,
Would fall forespent upon the chilly sand
And quiver with the winds from off the sea?
Ah quietly the shingle waits the tides
Whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me
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The Teak Forest

Whether I loved you who shall say?
Whether I drifted down your way
In the endless River of Chance and Change,
And you woke the strange
Unknown longings that have no names,
But burn us all in their hidden flames,
    Who shall say?

Life is a strange and a wayward thing:
We heard the bells of the Temples ring,
The married children, in passing, sing.
The month of marriage, the month of spring,
Was full of the breath of sunburnt flowers
That bloom in a fiercer light than ours,
And, under a sky more fiercely blue,
    I came to you!

You told me tales of your vivid life
Where death was cruel and danger rife -
Of deep dark forests, of poisoned trees,
Of pains and passions that scorch and freeze,
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The Ring.

TO .... ....


No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
    Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
    May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
    Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;
Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,
    To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,--
    Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
    Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,
    Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go--hie thee to the sage's book,
    And learn from him to feel no more.

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