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My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Edna St. Vincent Millay
Age: 58 †
Born: 1892
Born: February 22
Died: 1950
Died: October 19
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Hectic
Friends
Foes
Lasts
Foe
Last
Burns
Night
Candle
Ends
Tonight
Light
Lovely
Giving
Candlelight
Love
Gives

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After the feet of beauty fly my own.
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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
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When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most
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I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.
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I am not at all in favor of hard work for its own sake many people who work very hard indeed produce terrible things, and should most certainly not be encouraged.
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Music my rampart, and my only one.
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We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.
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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.
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Stranger, pause and look From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
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No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.
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I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.
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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
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Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, Someday you must meet my mother.
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Life has no friend.
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Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly That I might eat again, and met thy sneers With deprecations, and thy blows with tears.
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