Today’s Poem: Blue Squills
Sara Teasdale on beauty as pain
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A reviewer once described a collection of her poems as “a little volume of joyous and unstudied song.” But the poems of Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) strike me as neither joyous, exactly, nor at all unstudied. In a brief career cut even shorter by her suicide in 1933, Teasdale wrote poems about beauty…
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