August Moonrise
By Sara Teasdale
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills;
The west was rosy, the east was flushed,
And over my head the swallows rushed
This way and that, with changeful wills.
I heard them twitter and watched them dart
Now together and now apart
Like dark petals blown from a tree;
The maples stamped against the west
Were black and stately and full of rest,
And the hazy orange moon grew up
And slowly changed to yellow gold
While the hills were darkened, fold on fold
To a deeper blue than a flower could hold.
Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men,
For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool
Wakened ecstasy in me
On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild
Ever since I was a child,
But when have I been sure as now
That no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end?
And though I must give my breath
And my laughter all to death,
And my eyes through which joy came,
And my heart, a wavering flame;
If all must leave me and go back
Along a blind and fearful track
So that you can make anew,
Fusing with intenser fire,
Something nearer your desire;
If my soul must go alone
Through a cold infinity,
Or even if it vanish, too,
Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.
About the Poem
There is something about an August evening that already seems to carry the faintest suggestion of an ending. Summer is still very much with us, but the days are growing shorter. Darkness comes a little earlier than it did only a few weeks before. There may still be hot afternoons ahead, but occasionally there is a coolness in the evening air that reminds us autumn is not so far away.
Sara Teasdale captures one of those evenings in “August Moonrise,” but what begins as a beautiful description of the natural world gradually becomes something much more profound. She watches the sun disappear, the moon rise over the hills, and swallows dart across the evening sky. The colors deepen from rosy pink to orange, gold, and finally a blue so intense that it is “deeper…than a flower could hold.”
For a moment, everything else disappears.
“Down the hill I went, and then / I forgot the ways of men,” she writes. I love that line. There are moments when we need to forget the ways of men for a little while. The world can be exhausting. People disappoint us. We disappoint ourselves. There are worries about tomorrow and regrets about yesterday. Sometimes we need an evening when the air is cool, the moon is rising, and the rest of the world can simply wait.
But Teasdale does not remain in that peaceful landscape. The beauty surrounding her makes her think about something much larger: the fact that she will eventually lose everything.
Her breath. Her laughter. Her sight. Her heart. Perhaps even her soul.
That sounds bleak, yet “August Moonrise” does not feel like a poem of despair. Teasdale knows that sorrow is unavoidable, but she refuses to believe that sorrow negates beauty. She writes:
“no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end”
There is tremendous hope in those words—not the hope that nothing bad will happen, but the knowledge that pain does not erase every beautiful thing that came before it.
We sometimes think happiness means reaching a place where nothing hurts anymore. Life rarely works that way. Joy and sorrow have an inconvenient habit of existing beside one another. We can grieve someone we have lost and still laugh at a memory of them. We can carry disappointment and still be stopped in our tracks by a beautiful sunset. We can have no idea what tomorrow will bring and still enjoy the moon rising tonight.
Perhaps that is enough.
Teasdale ends with two remarkable lines:
“Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.”
Everything will eventually be taken from her, but she has had this hour. She has seen the moon rise. She has smelled the damp evening air. She has watched swallows crossing the sky. She has experienced beauty so completely that, for this moment at least, simply having been alive to witness it makes the eventual price of mortality seem worth paying.
We cannot hold on to an August evening forever. We cannot hold on to summer. We cannot hold on to youth, the people we love, or ultimately even life itself. Perhaps that is precisely why we should pay attention while they are here.
There will always be another worry waiting for us tomorrow. Tonight, perhaps, we can look up at the moon.
“August Moonrise” begins almost as a landscape painting. Teasdale establishes the scene through color and movement: blue Connecticut hills, a rosy western sky, darting swallows, black maples, an orange moon turning to gold, and hills deepening into blue.
Her imagery is unusually vivid, but it is not static. Everything is changing. The sun has already disappeared. The moon is rising. The swallows move unpredictably through the sky. Colors shift as daylight gives way to darkness. Even before Teasdale explicitly introduces mortality, she has created a world defined by transition.
The swallows are particularly effective. Teasdale compares them to “dark petals blown from a tree.” Petals are beautiful, but fallen petals also suggest impermanence. They have separated from the flower that produced them and are being carried away. The image quietly anticipates the poem’s later concern with everything that must eventually “leave me and go back.”
The poem’s major transition occurs with the lines:
“Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men”
Until this point, the speaker has primarily been an observer. Now she enters into communion with the landscape. The “night-scents, heady, and damp and cool” awaken an almost ecstatic response. Beauty is no longer merely something she sees; it becomes something she experiences physically and spiritually.
Teasdale then directly addresses Beauty itself. By capitalizing the word, she transforms beauty from a quality into something approaching a divine presence. She has been “drunk and wild” on Beauty since childhood. The language resembles religious devotion, and by the poem’s end she explicitly declares, “Beauty, I have worshipped you.”
Yet her worship does not promise immortality. Teasdale entertains several possibilities for what follows death. Perhaps the individual is somehow remade into something new. Perhaps the soul continues alone through “a cold infinity.” Perhaps the soul itself simply vanishes.
She does not claim to know.
That uncertainty is important. The poem’s consolation does not depend upon certainty about an afterlife. Whatever awaits her—or does not await her—she knows that she has experienced beauty while she was alive.
This gives particular force to the final couplet. The “theft” is mortality itself: everything life gives us will eventually be reclaimed. Yet Teasdale asks that this one perfect hour of beauty “atone” for that loss.
It is an extraordinary exchange. One hour cannot literally compensate for death, of course. But poetry is not concerned with balancing an account. Teasdale is expressing the immense value of being fully present for even one moment of existence.
The poem therefore becomes less about death than about how to live in its presence. Mortality gives urgency to beauty. Because the moon will set, we should watch it rise. Because August will end, we should notice its evenings. Because our lives are finite, the moments when we truly see the world around us matter all the more.
About the Poet
Sara Teasdale was born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1884 and became one of the most popular American lyric poets of the early twentieth century. Her poetry is known for its musical quality, emotional clarity, and frequent attention to love, beauty, nature, solitude, and mortality.
Her first collection, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, appeared in 1907, followed by Helen of Troy and Other Poems in 1911. Her 1917 collection Love Songs received major recognition, including what is now regarded as an early form of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry.
Although Teasdale’s poems often appear deceptively simple, their accessible language can conceal considerable emotional complexity. She frequently places moments of natural beauty beside loneliness, longing, loss, or an awareness of death. Rather than diminishing beauty, however, mortality often seems to intensify it. What is temporary becomes precious precisely because it cannot remain.
Teasdale died in New York City in 1933 at the age of forty-eight. Her poetry has endured in part because of her ability to express enormous emotions without elaborate language. She could take something as ordinary as watching the moon rise over distant hills and transform it into a meditation on beauty, sorrow, mortality, and what makes a life worth living.
In “August Moonrise,” she leaves us with a simple challenge: notice what is beautiful while it is still before us. Summer will end. The moon will set. Every perfect hour eventually passes.
But first, we get to experience it.
