Sara Teasdale Quotes

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert. Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last. Even the sun goes down.

The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

a full moon is a flashlight so everyone can see your drama!

We are but phantoms ... and the phantoms of phantoms, desires like cloud-shadows and wills of straw that eddy in the wind; the days pass, use and wont carry us through as a train carries the shadow of its lights.

Mary's light is like that of the moon, totally reflected from the sun, the Son of God.

The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis. Shinin', like "Who on top of this?

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.

Such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.

We are all like fireworks. We climb, shine and always go our separate ways and become further apart. But even if that time comes, let's not disappear like a firework, and continue to shine... forever.

Even the most solid of things, and the most real, the best-loved and the well-known, are only hand shadows on the wall. Empty space and points of light.

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

The moon hung over the planet Earth, a dead thing over a dying thing.

Despair was so familiar to me; it could be banished by the sight of a beautiful mannikin in the window. It could be dispelled by the spectacle of lights surrounding a tower. It could be lifted by the great ghostly shape of St. Patrick's coming into view. And then despair would come again.

And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present

There's the moon trying to look romanticMoon's too old that's her troubleAren't we all?

The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

I saw a star slide down the sky Blinding the north as it went by Too buring and too quick to hold Too lovely to be bought or sold Good only to make wishes on And then forever to be gone

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed, at one time wholly obscuring her, at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendor and shed her light on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness.