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Soft Rains: Sara Teasdale

rain, nature, sunlight, beauty

In the midst of our divisive, too often violent world, I have often found myself resting back on this poem:

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

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.

Sara Teasdale wrote this poem during the first World War, having it published in July of 1918. When I read it as a teenager, it spoke to my love of nature and beauty, as well as my idealism of the time. My youthful outrage at human cruelty, as well as my concrete sense of the fleetingness of human life due to my progressive disease, led me to seek something more. Through this poem, I glimpsed an abstract sense of something superior to humanity, something purer and more lasting. My spirituality at the time, perhaps like that of Sara Teasdale, centered on the powerful beauty of the natural world.

What I did not know in reading this poem was that the author committed suicide when she was 48 years old.

Sara Teasdale had always been known to love pretty things and to have frail health, even being schooled at home as a young child because of her sickliness. And yes, that does remind me of myself a little bit. Marriage was in Sara’s future, however, but so was divorce. She, like me, never had children and expressed herself through the beauty of words. In the last years of her life, she suffered from chronic pneumonia and decided to swallow a handful of sleeping pills. Her poetry shows that she was able to find extraordinary beauty in ordinary things, but this ability alone was not enough to save her life.

Sara Teasdale, female poets, There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale. Photograph by Gerhard Sisters, ca. 1910

Now that I know more about the life and death of Sara Teasdale, I see something else in her poem that was always there though I didn’t recognize it: indifference. Nature is indifferent to Mankind, the poet tells us. Whether humans exist or not is of no consequence or concern to the natural world. Perhaps, she felt that her fellow human beings were likewise indifferent to her own suffering, loneliness, and sorrow. Perhaps, to her understanding, the Creator of all life was a distant, indifferent sort of absence that was meaningless in her thinking of life and death.

Did Sara Teasdale know that she was divinely loved into being by the supreme source of beauty, Beauty Itself, who is not impersonal, but willingly, lovingly incarnate? Perhaps, for her, indifference — the isolation that can be produced by ignorance of God’s intimate love — was all that remained when relationships, creative flow, and physical health ceased. Perhaps, Sara Teasdale became fixated on death as the only poetry for one whose quest for truth, no matter how sincere, is painfully and terminally flawed.

Depression, mental illness, addiction, and yes, physical pain can negatively affect the workings of the soul so that we may fail to believe that life is worth living. Once upon a time, Sara had believed in beauty, believed in the power of beauty to yield joy even in sorrow. But her understanding of beauty was lethally limited, dependent upon the finite dust of stars. And when illness and loneliness caused her to see that her faith had been poorly placed, that nothing of earth, no matter how beautiful, can answer the longing of the human soul, she became impatient for nothingness. She stopped mining her heart for treasure, because she felt exhausted.

Every human being, however, even a disillusioned poet, is an inexhaustible mystery whose depths can never be fully plumbed. I am not a scholar of poetry and have not fully studied the biography of Teasdale, but I do feel sorry for Sara, the lyrical poet whose first spoken word was “pretty,” because she did not quite seem able to understand and love the meaning of her life in its entirety. We humans are sister creatures not only with the dust of the stars but also with the light, the light that is more than photons, particles, waves — the Light that no darkness can overcome. We are intrinsically part of the Light that can never be indifferent to anything or anyone, the Light that shines on all and sees that the world — every swallow, frog, tree, robin, and human — is very, very good. Our souls do not belong to the dust of the earth, but to the Light from which there is no escape. But we cannot fully and eternally live in the everlasting Light if we are indifferent to it.

All over the world, in a vast variety of difficult situations, human beings are feeling unloved, overwhelmed, and insignificant, and are failing to see the point of continuing life. How do we feel about that? What do we do about that? Is the plight of the clinically depressed divorcee, the ailing widower, the abused foster child, the pregnant and frightened teenager, the impoverished migrant, the desperate drug addict, the persecuted believer, or the war-torn family thousands of miles away of no consequence to us, of no concern to our daily lives?

The sense of indifference feeds the culture of death. The soft rains of silence are not harbingers of peace.

© 2019 Christina Chase

(I hope to return to Sara Teasdale and her poetry in a future reflection. These are my thoughts for now.)

Feature Photo by Sina Katirachi on Unsplash

Photo of Sara Teasdale, circa 1910, Missouri Historical Society

Sources: Poetry Foundation, Wikipedia, Poem Hunter. See also another blogger.

Christina Chase View All

Although crippled by disease, I'm fully alive in love. I write about the terrible beauty and sacred wonder of life, while living with physical disability and severe dependency. A revert to the Catholic faith through atheism, I'm not afraid to ask life's big questions. I explore what it means to be fully human through my weekly blog and have written a book: It's Good to Be Here, published by Sophia Institute Press.

8 thoughts on “Soft Rains: Sara Teasdale Leave a comment

  1. Another poet, Mary Webb, herself disabled, was a contemporary over in Shropshire. A rather different melancholy here.

    Under a blossoming tree
    Let me lie down,
    With one blackbird to sing to me
    In the evenings brown.
    Safe from the world’s long importunity–
    The endless talk, the critical, sly stare,
    The trifling social days–and unaware
    Of all the bitter thoughts they have of me,
    Low in the grass, deep in the daisies,
    I shall sleep sound, safe from their blames and praises.


    • Another good reminder to read more Mary Webb! I don’t think that I have ever romanticized death in any of my poetry over the years, unless it was a way of giving comfort to those who may mourn me. Certainly, I know that I have not experienced this kind of yearning for the silence of the grave. There is one poem of mine that may be the exception to that, one that I will be sharing later when I muse further on Sara Teasdale.
      Pax Christi


  2. So well said Christina! Thank you very much.
    So similar to a Buddhist prayer we recite at a weekly meditation group I attend, “ all things are the nature of change and there is no way to escape change. Awaken and take heed, do not squander your life “
    In other words we need to act on our compassion, otherwise seeing all the suffering in the world just brings us down. That’s were true transformation takes place.


    • Thank you for reflecting with me and sharing that prayer! It also makes me think of that part of the serenity prayer, “God grant me the courage to change the things that I can.”
      Transformation is a blessed gift indeed. I believe, as you have written, that compassion for others, even in the midst of our own suffering, is the key to joy.
      Pax Christi


  3. Dear Christina, Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us. God sure has a way of touching us through others. Your post is timely. It is what I needed at the moment. May god continue to bless you and your wonderful parents💐 Marie Connor

    Sent from XFINITY Connect App


    • May God bless you! Thank you for reflecting with me and sharing this comment. God certainly does have a way of touching us through others—your encouragement is moving and deeply appreciated.


  4. “Whoever wants to become a Christian must first become a poet.” – Elder Porphyrios

    It’s memorial day now, and we’ve had mostly hard rains lately. Your post somehow turned me to thinking of Bob Dylan’s song “Shelter from the Storm..” 

    Some poets seem able to make it through to a type of attitude that you have described so beautifully, Christina. Sara Teasdale didn’t, or at least we think she didnt . Still there was hope in her words. That will have to be enough for now, for those of us how have hung on, whether through poetry or through faith, or maybe a combination of both.

    Perhaps a poetic sensitivity available to all, though cultivated by only a few, can lead to truth — even though the very quality of cultivation can be an obstacle if poetry becomes the goal instead of truth. Could that have been both Sara’s sad story and your happy one?  Just thinking. . .


    • Thank you for thinking! “The very quality of cultivation can be an obstacle if poetry becomes the goal instead of truth” — how true that rings to me, both in writing poetry (caring so much about sound, meter, and rhyme that I forget the point of the poem) and in living life (caring so much about the look and feel of my existence that I forget the reason for it.) I don’t know what was in Sara Teasdale’s heart, but God does, and is merciful.
      May you always find shelter from the storm, Al.

      Liked by 1 person

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