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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
Wrong
Wrung
Eye
Bitten
Song
Pens
Done
Cruel
Heart
Lays
Mind
Written
Eyes
Reading
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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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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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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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O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure
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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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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.
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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain-- Dawn will find them still again This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start.
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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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This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.
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I screamed, and--lo!--Infinity Came down and settled over me
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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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After the feet of beauty fly my own.
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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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