By Sara Teasdale
My soul is a dark ploughed field
In the cold rain;
My soul is a broken field
Ploughed by pain.
Where windy grass and flowers
Were growing,
The field lies broken now
For another sowing.
Great Sower, when you tread
My field again,
Scatter the furrows there
With better grain
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Today is Sara Teasdale's birthday. She was born in 1884. Ms. Teasdale is one of my favorite poets. I began reading her poetry when I was 13 years old and became hooked for life. I credit her for starting my early love affair with poetry.
In 1931, an old suitor of Ms. Teasdale, the poet Vachel Lindsay, killed himself. Sara was devastated. Sadly, in 1933, she committed suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills.
You can get many of her early works free at Amazon.com if you have a Kindle or other wireless device. I love her book, "Rivers to the Sea".
