A Fantasy

Sara TeasdaleSara Teasdale

1 min read · 12.4K reads

Her voice is like clear water
That drips upon a stone
In forests far and silent
Where Quiet plays alone.Her thoughts are like the lotus
Abloom by sacred streams
Beneath the temple arches
Where Quiet sits and dreams.Her kisses are the roses
That glow while dusk is deep
In Persian garden closes
Where Quiet falls asleep.
Sara Teasdale
About the poet

Sara Teasdale

1884 - 1933/Female/AmericanA lyric poet who wrote collections mostly about her loneliness.

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