The wind is tossing the lilacs,_x000D_ _x000D_ The new leaves laugh in the sun,_x000D_ _x000D_ And the petals fall on the orchard wall,_x000D_ _x000D_ But for me the spring is done._x000D_ _x000D_ Beneath the apple blossoms_x000D_ _x000D_ I go a wintry way,_x000D_ _x000D_ For love that smiled in April_x000D_ _x000D_ Is false to me in May.
Interpretation
The quote reflects the sadness and disillusionment that can accompany lost love, contrasting the beauty of spring with personal sorrow.
In this quote, Sara Teasdale uses the imagery of nature, particularly springtime symbols like lilacs and apple blossoms, to express the transition from joy to heartbreak. While the world around her celebrates the vibrancy of spring, she feels a deep emotional winter, mourning a love that once brought her happiness but has now turned into a source of pain and disappointment.
In practice
During a poetry reading about love and loss, one might use this quote to illustrate the theme of fleeting happiness.
As the waves of perfume, heliotrope, rose, _x000D_ _x000D_ Float in the garden when no wind blows, _x000D_ _x000D_ Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows; _x000D_ _x000D_ So the old tunes float in my mind, _x000D_ _x000D_ And go from me leaving no trace behind, _x000D_ _x000D_ Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.
From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea -- We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me.
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten forever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf, That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold.
What is important is how well we love. God will make our _x000D_ love fruitful, whether we see that fruitfulness or not.
I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me.
I used to look in the mirror and feel shame, I look in the mirror now and I absolutely love myself.
I love myself...I love you. I love you...I love myself.
You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Love is not some complex, mystical abstraction. It is something accessible and human that we learn through our everyday experience, as often at times of failure as in moments of ecstasy.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.