Lines After Singing Teasdale

Not lost in love, the plaintive poet cried
And wrung her hands, begged for the wildest rush
Of senses blinded, deafened by the touch
Of passion for which she had longed so much.
Not lost in feathered beard to brush her lips
Nor yet in deepest rumble of that voice
Which, calling to her even in a dream,
She would make following its pitch her choice.
Not even lost in these advancing years
That paint an ever-growing portrait of
The standard of perfection in her eyes,
At least for her, the very face of Love.
How could she know, poor poetess renowned,
That in such love, one is not lost, but found?

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About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
This entry was posted in love, Poetry, Sonnet, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Lines After Singing Teasdale

  1. rita kowats says:

    Thanks for keeping the beauty of the sonnet form alive and well, Jane.

    • janemwoodman says:

      You are kind. I don’t know why it appeals to me so much. Maybe it’s the potential for the shift at the end that can enliven the preceding lines. That’s a basis for humor, too.

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