THE BROKEN FIELD

by: Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

      Y soul is a dark ploughed field
      In the cold rain;
      My soul is a broken field
      Ploughed by pain.
       
      Where windy grass and 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.

"The Broken Field" is reprinted from Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1916. Ed. William Stanley Braithwaite. New York: Laurence J. Gomme, 1916.

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