Poem by Sara Teasdale

The Broken Field

MY SOUL is a dark ploughed field
    In the cold rain; 
My soul is a broken field
    Ploughed by pain.

Where grass and bending flowers
    Were growing, 
The field lies broken now
    For another sowing.

Great Sower when you tread
    My field again, 
Scatter the furrows there
    With better grain.

1. Swans
2. The Ghost
3. The River
4. November
5. The Song for Colin

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