Edna St Vincent Millay

I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no

I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.

Night is my sister, and how deep in love, How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore, There to be fretted by the drag and shove At the tide’s edge, I lie-these things and

My most Distinguished Guest and Learned Friend, The pallid hare that runs before the day Having brought your earnest counsels to an end Now have I somewhat of my own to say: That it

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and

Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad, And love me if you like. I shall not hear the door shut Nor the knocker strike. Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts, And

Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,- Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous pollen blown, And odors rank, unbreathable, From dark corollas thrown! At dawn from my

Aye, but she? Your other sister and my other soul Grave Silence, lovelier Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? Clio, not you, Not you, Calliope, Nor all your wanton line, Not Beauty’s

Oh, here the air is sweet and still, And soft’s the grass to lie on; And far away’s the little hill They took for Christ to die on. And there’s a hill across the

Whereas at morning in a Jeweled Crown I bit my fingers and was hard to please, Having shook disaster till the fruit fell down I feel tonight more happy and at ease: Feet running

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing

Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care; Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there. Love, in my

People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the

STILL must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to Such things as flowers and song and you; Still as of old his being give

Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,-O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! (I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a

How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my

Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove, Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after The launching of the colored moths of Love. Love’s proper myrtle

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the

Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea; Wanting the sticky, salty

I LOVE, though for this you riddle me with darts, And drag me at your chariot till I die,­ Oh, heavy prince! O, panderer of hearts!­ Yet hear me tell how in their throats

(On reflecting that the world is ready to go to war again) Detestable race, continue to expunge yourself, die out. Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sing hymns, build bombing airplanes; Make speeches, unveil statues, issue

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain, While

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. And what did I see I had not seen before? Only a question less or a question more: Nothing to match the flight

Not even my pride shall suffer much; Not even my pride at all, maybe, If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch Be loosed by you and not by me, Will suffer; I have been so true

AND if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday­ So much is true. And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I

For the sake of some things That be now no more I will strew rushes On my chamber-floor, I will plant bergamot At my kitchen-door. For the sake of dim things That were once

WE were very tired, we were very merry­ We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable­ But we looked into a

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down

Spring rides no horses down the hill, But comes on foot, a goose-girl still. And all the loveliest things there be Come simply, so, it seems to me. If ever I said, in grief

This door you might not open, and you did; So enter now, and see for what slight thing You are betrayed…. Here is no treasure hid No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring The sought-for

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly; In my own way, and with my full consent. Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely Went to their deaths more proud

No hawk hangs over in this air: The urgent snow is everywhere. The wing adroiter than a sail Must lean away from such a gale, Abandoning its straight intent, Or else expose tough ligament

God had called us, and we came; Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbor’s house, Open to us, bereft. Gay the lights of Heaven showed, And ’twas God who walked ahead;

She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In

Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well: Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

If he should lie a-dying I AM not willing you should go Into the earth, where Helen went; She is awake by now, I know. Where Cleopatra’s anklets rust You will not lie with

IV I SHALL forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And

The room is full of you!-As I came in And closed the door behind me, all at once A something in the air, intangible, Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!- Sharp, unfamiliar

I’ll keep a little tavern Below the high hill’s crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the

Brother, that breathe the August air Ten thousand years from now, And smell-if still your orchards bear Tart apples on the bough- The early windfall under the tree, And see the red fruit shine,

There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once-she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s door. (That’s why

Give away her gowns, Give away her shoes; She has no more use For her fragrant gowns; Take them all down, Blue, green, blue, Lilac, pink, blue, From their padded hangers; She will dance

Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be: Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of

If I grow bitterly, Like a gnarled and stunted tree, Bearing harshly of my youth Puckered fruit that sears the mouth; If I make of my drawn boughs An Inshospitable House, Out of which

All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word! Give me back my book and take my kiss instead. Was it my enemy or my friend I heard, “What a big book for such

If it were only still!- With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat Moving through the bushes; Or the soft shock Of wizened apples falling

Edna St. Vincent Millay – Midnight Oil Cut if you will, with Sleep’s dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,- The years that Time take off my life, He’ll take from

Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow’s hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then

As to some lovely temple, tenantless Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass Grown up between the stones, yet from excess Of grief hard

Into the golden vessel of great song Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; Not we,-articulate, so, but with the tongue Of all the

II I THINK I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and

When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our burning their remains No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, This be

I I had forgotten how the frogs must sound After a year of silence, else I think I should not so have ventured forth alone At dusk upon this unfrequented road. II I am

When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away

I cannot but remember When the year grows old- October-November- How she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky, And turn from the window With a little

I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never having Wavered In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of the Rich or in the presence of clergymen having

(He speaks, but to himself, being aware how it is with her) Think not I have not heard. Well-fanged the double word And well-directed flew. I felt it. Down my side Innocent as oil

Women have loved before as I love now; At least, in lively chronicles of the past- Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast Much to their cost

OH, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke! I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk! There’s little kind and little fair Is worth its weight

“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?” -Surely it is not I she’s wanting; Someone living here before- “Nobody’s in the house but me: You may come in if you

I know the face of Falsehood and her Tongue Honeyed with unction, Plausible with guile, Are dear to men, whom count me not among, That owe their daily credit to her smile; Such have

Boys and girls that held her dear, Do your weeping now; All you loved of her lies here. Brought to earth the arrogant brow, And the withering tongue Chastened; do your weeping now. Sing

III OH, THINK not I am faithful to a vow! Faithless am I save to love’s self alone. Were you not lovely I would leave you now: After the feet of beauty fly my

Set the foot down with distrust upon the crust of the world-it is thin. Moles are at work beneath us; they have tunneled the sub-soil With separate chambers; which at an appointed knock Could

AS I went walking up and down to take the evening air, (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?) I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black

Doubt no more that Oberon- Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest, In the merry, credulous days,- Lived, and led a fairy band Over

Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave!

“Son,” said my mother, When I was knee-high, “you’ve need of clothes to cover you, And not a rag have I. “There’s nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to

Pity me not because the light of day At close of day no longer walks the sky; Pity me not for beauties passed away From field and thicket as the the year goes by;

As I sat down by Saddle Stream To bathe my dusty feet there, A boy was standing on the bridge Any girl would meet there. As I went over Woody Knob And dipped into

Why do you follow me?- Any moment I can be Nothing but a laurel-tree. Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place A pink bough for your embrace. Yet if