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Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.
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
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Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Eyes
Reading
Wrong
Wrung
Eye
Bitten
Song
Pens
Done
Cruel
Heart
Lays
Mind
Written
More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.
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All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.
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A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.
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One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !
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Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.
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I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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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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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.
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If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.
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I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
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I will come back to you, I swear I will And you will know me still. I shall be only a little taller Than when I went.
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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
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Life must go on I forget just why.
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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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Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
