Eight O'clock

Supper comes at five oclock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight oclock
But eight oclock is far.

How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight oclock to me.

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

In Memoriam F.O.S.

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Epitaph

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Other Men

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

To A Picture Of Eleonora Duse As "Francesca da Rimini"

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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Oh You Are Coming

Oh you are coming, coming, coming,
How will hungry Time put by the hours till then?,
But why does it anger my heart to long so
For one man out of the world of men?

Oh I would live in myself only
And build my life lightly and still as a dream,
Are not my thoughts clearer than your thoughts
And colored like stones in a running stream?

Now the slow moon brightens in heaven,
The stars are ready, the night is here,
Oh why must I lose myself to love you,
My dear?

Sara Teasdale

Bells

At six oclock of an autumn dusk
With the sky in the west a rusty red,
The bells of the mission down in the valley
Cry out that the day is dead.

The first star pricks as sharp as steel,
Why am I suddenly so cold?
Three bells, each with a separate sound
Clang in the valley, wearily tolled.

Bells in Venice, bells at sea,
Bells in the valley heavy and slow,
There is no place over the crowded world
Where I can forget that the days go.

Sara Teasdale

Eight Oclock

He stood, and heard the steeple
Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town.
One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
It tossed them down.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
And then the clock collected in the tower
Its strength, and struck.

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The Fairy Clock

Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!
Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play?
Tell me when the sun will set - tiny globe of silver-grey.

It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn,
Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn -
And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.

Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things;
Run too lightly with the wind - chased too many shining wings;
Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.

Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun -
All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun -
In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.

And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that...

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At Midnight

Now at last I have come to see what life is,
Nothing is ever ended, everything only begun,
And the brave victories that seem so splendid
Are never really won.

Even love that I built my spirit's house for,
Comes like a brooding and a baffled guest,
And music and men's praise and even laughter
Are not so good as rest.

Sara Teasdale

Noon

As some contented bird doth coo
    She trilled a song of fond delight,
    The while she spread the cloth of white,
And set the cups and plates for two.

She leaned beyond the window sill,
    And looked along the busy street,
    And listened for his coming feet.
The skies were calm, the winds were still.

'O love, my love, why art thou late?
    The kettle boils, the cloth is spread,
    The clock points close to noon,' she said.
O clock of time!    O clock of fate!

She heard the moon's glad sound of cheer;
    (The hiss, the whirl, the crash, the creak,
    Of maddened wheels, the awful shriek
Of awestruck men -she did not hear.)

She lightly tripped about the room,
    And near the window, where his eyes
    Might greet it w...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox