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The Broken Field

by Sara Teasdale
My soul is a dark ploughed field
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The Broken Field

by 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.

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