Sara Teasdalewas an American lyric poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri, and used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger after her marriage in 1914... (wikipedia)
There is a quiet at the heart of love, And I have pierced the pain and come to peace.
My heart is a garden tired with autumn.
There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.
The leaves fall patiently Nothing remembers or grieves The river takes to the sea The yellow drift of leaves.
It will not hurt me when I am old, A running tide where moonlight burned Will not sting me like silver snakes;The years will make me sad and cold, It is the happy heart that breaks.
One by one, like leaves from a tree, / All my faiths have forsaken me.
My soul is a broken field, plowed by pain.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.