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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
Translator
Writer
Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Eyes
Reading
Wrong
Wrung
Eye
Bitten
Song
Pens
Done
Cruel
Heart
Lays
Mind
Written

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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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What should I be but just what I am?
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We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.
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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.
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Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
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I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.
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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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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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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.
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Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before
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You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.
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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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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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Beauty is whatever gives joy.
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Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
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They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now
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A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
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