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The Broken Field

Sara Teasdale

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.

Flame and Shadow

Home :: Poetry :: Sorrow and Sadness (6) :: The Broken Field

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