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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's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail email@example.com