Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale

ªÕÇÔµÁÕ¤ÇÒÁ¹èÒÃÑ¡ÁÒ¢ÒÂ
Åéǹà»ç¹ÊÔè§ÊǧÒÁàÅÔÈàÅÍ
¤Å×è¹ÊÕ¿éÒ·Õè¡ÅѺ¡ÅÒÂà»ç¹ÊÕ¢ÒǺ¹â¢´¼Ò
ÃкѴà»ÅÇä¿·ÕèºÃÃàŧà¾Å§
áÅÐ㹴ǧ˹éҢͧà´ç¡·Õèá˧¹Áͧ
Íѹà»ÕèÂÁ´éǤÇÒÁÍÑȨÃÃÂì

ªÕÇÔµÁÕ¤ÇÒÁ¹èÒÃÑ¡ÁÒ¢ÒÂ
º·à¾Å§´Ñ§àÊ鹷ͧ·ÕèÍè͹ªéÍÂ
¡ÅÔè¹Ê¹ã¹ÊÒ½¹
¹Ñ¹ìµÒ·ÕèÃÑ¡à¸Í ÍéÍÁᢹ·Õèâͺ¡Í´
áÅÐÂѧ¤ÇÒÁàºÔ¡ºÒ¹ã¹¨Ôµã¨à¸Í
´éǤÇÒÁ¤Ô´¾ÔÊØ·¸Ôì´Ñ§´ÒÇÊèͧ¡ÅÒ§¤×¹

ÂÍÁãËé·Ø¡ÊÔ觷Õèà¸ÍÁաѺ¤ÇÒÁ¹èÒÃÑ¡¹Ñé¹
«×éÍÁÒà¡çºäÇé ÍÂèÒä´é¤Ó¹Ç³ÃÒ¤Ò
à¾ÃÒÐ˹Ö觪ÑèÇâÁ§Ê§ºãÊ·Õè¢Ñº¢Ò¹
ÁÕ¤èÒÁÒ¡¡ÇèÒ˹Ö觻ÕÃé͹ù·ÕèµéͧÊÙ­àÊÕÂ
à¾×èÍä´éÁÒ«Öè§Ë¹Öè§ÅÁËÒÂ㨢ͧ»ÕµÔ»ÃÕ´Ò
¨§ãËé¤ÇÒÁà»ç¹µÑÇà¸Í·Ø¡ÍÂèÒ§·ÕèÁÕÍÂÙè áÅзÕèà¸ÍÍÒ¨à»ç¹ä´é

«ÒÃÒ ·ÕÊà´Å

No one worth possessing can be quite possessed -- Teasdale

SARA TEASDALE
 

º·¡Çբͧà¸Íä¾àÃÒзÑé§ÀÒÉÒáÅФÇÒÁËÁÒ ·ÕÊà´Åà¢Õ¹¡ÇÕä´éÊÇÂÁÒ¡ ËÇÒ¹ÁÒ¡ áÅТÁ¢×è¹ä´éÍÂèÒ§ÂÔè§ÂÇ´àªè¹¡Ñ¹ àªè¹ã¹º·¢éÒ§µé¹·ÕèºÍ¡¶Ö§¤ÇÒÁ§ÒÁ¢Í§âÅ¡ º· Wisdom ·Õèà»ÃÕº¶Ö§Ä´ÙãºäÁé¼ÅÔáÅк͡àÃÒÇèÒ "What we have never had, remains; / It is the things we have that go." ÊÔ觷ÕèàÃÒäÁèà¤Âä´éÁÒà·èÒ¹Ñé¹ ·Õè¨Ð¤§ÍÂÙè¡ÑºàÃÒ áÅÐã¹ÊÔ觷ÕèàÃÒÁÕÍÂÙèà·èÒ¹Ñé¹·Õè¨Ð¨Ò¡ä»

¤ÇÒÁ¤Ô´·ÕèÍÂÙèã¹ÀÒÉÒÊÇ·ÓãË麷¡Çբͧà¸Í¹èÒ»ÃзѺã¨ä´éÁÒ¡ 㹺· Those Who Love à¸ÍºÍ¡ÇèÒ¤¹·ÕèÃÑ¡ä´éÁÒ¡¹Ñé¹äÁè¡ÅèÒǶ֧¤ÇÒÁÃÑ¡¢Í§µ¹ ¼ÙéË­Ô§·ÕèÁÕÃÑ¡ÂÔè§ãË­èÍÂèÒ§àªè¹¿ÃÒ¹àªÊ¡éÒ ¡Ô¹¹ÕàÇÕÂÃì ÍÔâ«Å àËÅèÒ¹ÕéÅéǹäÁè»ÃÔ»Ò¡ ËÃ×ÍËÒ¡¨Ð¾Ù´ÍÍ¡ÁÒ ¡ç¨Ð¡ÅèÒÇÍÂèÒ§àÅ×è͹ÅͶ֧àÃ×èͧ·ÕèäÁèà¡ÕèÂÇ¢éͧ¡Ñ¹ à¸ÍÃÙé¨Ñ¡¼ÙéË­Ô§·ÕèÃÑ¡¼ÙéªÒ¤¹Ë¹Öè§ÁÒµÑé§áµèà´ç¡ áµè¼ÙéË­Ô§¤¹¹Ñé¹äÁèà¤ÂàÍè¶֧àÃ×èͧ¹Õé áµèÂÒÁ·Õèä´éÂÔ¹ª×èͧ͢à¢Òâ´ÂºÑ§àÍÔ­ áʧÊÇèÒ§¡ç¨Ð»ÅÒº¼èÒ¹ã¹ÊÕ˹éÒ... "But hearing his name by chance, A light would pass over her face." ·ÕÊà´ÅºÍ¡àÅèÒ¤ÇÒÁÃÑ¡ÍѹÍè͹ËÇÒ¹ãËéàÃÒàËç¹ä´é´éÇ»ÃÐâ¤ÊÑé¹æ à¾Õ§»ÃÐâ¤à´ÕÂÇ ÀÒÉÒÊÒÁÑ­·ÕèÍèÒ¹ä´éà¢éÒ㨧èÒÂàªè¹¹Õéàͧ ·Õè·ÓãË麷¡Çբͧà¸ÍÍèÒ¹ä´é¤ÃÑé§áÅéǤÃÑé§àÅèÒ¼èÒ¹¡ÒÅàÇÅÒ

·ÕÊà´Åà»ç¹¡ÇÕÍàÁÃԡѹ à¡Ô´ã¹»Õ 1884 ã¹à«¹µìËÅØÂÊì ÁÔ««ÙÃÕ Áռŧҹ¡ÇÕµÕ¾ÔÁ¾ìà»ç¹¤ÃÑé§ááàÁ×èÍÍÒÂØ 23 »Õ à¸ÍÂéÒÂä»ÍÂÙè·Õè¹ÔÇÂÍÃì¤ã¹àÇÅÒµèÍÁÒ áÅÐä´éÃѺÃÒ§ÇÑžÙÅÔµà«ÍÃìã¹»Õ 1917 ¨Ò¡¼Å§Ò¹¡ÇÕ Love Songs «Ö觪×èÍÃÒ§ÇÑÅ㹵͹¹Ñ鹤×Í Columbia University Poetry Society Prize

ã¹»Õ 1933 ·ÕÊà´ÅµÕ¾ÔÁ¾ì§Ò¹ªÔé¹ÊØ´·éÒÂ㹪ÕÇÔµª×èÍ Strange Victory «Ö觶×͡ѹÇèÒà»ç¹¼Å§Ò¹·Õè´Õ·ÕèÊØ´ªÔé¹Ë¹Öè§ ¡è͹·Õèà¸Í¨Ð¦èÒµÑǵÒÂã¹»Õà´ÕÂǡѹ¹Ñé¹àͧ º·¡ÇÕª×èÍ Barter à»ç¹º··Õè©Ñ¹ªÍºÁÒ¡·ÕèÊØ´º·Ë¹Öè§ à¸Íà¢Õ¹¡Å͹º·¹ÕéäÇéã¹ Love Songs ÇèÒªÕÇÔµÁÕ¤ÇÒÁ¹èÒÃÑ¡ÁÒ¢Ò µÍ¹·Õèà¸Í»ÅÔ´ªÕÇÔµµÑÇàͧ¹Ñé¹ à¸Í¤§¨ÐÅ×Á¹Ö¡¶Ö§¡Å͹º·¹Õéä»

ÃÇÁº·¡Å͹¢Í§ Sara Teasdale www.inform.umd.edu/EdRes/ReadingRoom/Poetry/Teasdale
 

It was a night of early spring,
The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
Listened for what was never spoken.

Though half a score of years are gone,
Spring comes as sharply now as then--
But if we had it all to do
It would be done the same again.

It was a spring that never came,
But we have lived enough to know
What we have never had, remains;
It is the things we have that go.

THOSE WHO LOVE

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile, inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
 

THE NET

I made you many and many a song
Yet never one told all you are--
It was as though a net of words
Were flung to catch a star;

It was as though I curved my hand
And dipped sea-water eagerly,
Only to find it lost the blue
Dark splendor of the sea.
 

PITY

They never saw my lover's face,
They only know our love was brief,
Wearing awhile a windy grace
And passing like an autumn leaf.

They wonder why I do not weep,
They think it strange that I can sing,
They say, "Her love was scarcely deep
Since it has left so slight a sting."

They never saw my love, nor knew
That in my heart's most secret place
I pity them as angels do
Men who have never seen God's face.
 

DEBT

What do I owe to you
Who loved me deep and long?
You never gave my spirit wings
Or gave my heart a song.

But oh, to him I loved,
Who loved me not at all,
I owe the open gate
That led through heaven's wall.