Sara Teasdale captures the happy spookiness of the drawing in of night at the close of an autumn day.
Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) is the kind of poet who grows on the reader the more she is read. A native of St. Louis, she lived much of her adult life in New York before her suicide at age 49. From her early popularity, including what is now counted as the first Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1917, she has faded somewhat. The generations trained on later modernist free verse tended to find her twee and dated in the delicacy of her womanly feelings.
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