Category: Sara Teasdale

In the words of Sara Teasdale

Joey Jones4 Comments

Write about a few of your favourite family traditions…WP we have zero family traditions to write about. Instead, if I may, I will happily give over this space to the words of another. I love this poem

There will come soft rains

(War time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground.

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Sara Teasdale (1884~1930)

There will come soft rains

Joey Jones7 Comments

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

That’s an easy one to answer WP. A thriving  charity shop on a busy high street with lots of footfall and plenty of regular customers…

……… The sky had suddenly darkened as I looked out the street, which had become empty but for a few souls hurrying home before the downpour.

I’d just finished changing the window display, The clothes rails were tidy, and if I say it myself, the place looked good.

With a few minutes to spare before I shut up shop for the day, I ran my finger along the bookshelf to see what had been donated recently, something i may have missed.

And there it was The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale. I was excited to see it. Quickly taking ownership ( yes, I did pay for it!) I popped it in my bag, locked up and left for the day. There was one poem especially I wanted to read again….

(War time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,                                                      And swallows circling with their shimmering sound.

And frogs in the pool singing at night,      And wild plum trees in tremulous white.

Robins will wear their feathery fire,       Whistling their whims on a low-fence wire.

And not one will know of the war, not one, Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree  if mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,                                                                 Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Sara Teasdale ( 1884~1933)