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Poem by Sara Teasdale


The Broken Field


MY SOUL is a dark ploughed field
    In the cold rain; 
My soul is a broken field
    Ploughed by pain.

Where grass and bending flowers
    Were growing, 
The field lies broken now
    For another sowing.

Great Sower when you tread
    My field again, 
Scatter the furrows there
    With better grain.



Sara Teasdale


Sara Teasdale's other poems:
  1. In the Metropolitan Museum
  2. Dew
  3. The Fountain
  4. Wild Asters
  5. Two Songs for Solitude


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