Explore "The Mother of a Poet" by Sara Teasdale on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 / And softly singing as an orchard spring's / In sheltered hollows all the sunny year -- / A spring that thru the leaning grass looks up / And holds all heaven in its clarid cup, / Mirror to holy meadows high and blue / With stars like drops of dew.
I love to think that never tears at night / Have made her eyes less bright; / That all her girlhood thru / Never a cry of love made over-tense / Her voice's innocence; / That in her hands have lain, / Flowers beaten by the rain, / And little birds before they learned to sing / Drowned in the sudden ecstasy of spring.