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Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

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
Rock
Rocks
Palace
Built
Palaces
Safe
Houses
Stand
Solid
Upon
Sand
House
Shining
Come
Ugly

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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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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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What the customer demands is last year's model, cheaper. To find out what the customer needs you have to understand what the customer is doing as well as he understands it. Then you build what he needs and you educate him to the fact that he needs it.
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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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Although we sometimes did without a few of life's necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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Youth, have no pity leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
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it may be said of me by Harper & Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances.
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Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom, golden in the green grass, This life can be. Common as a dandelion-blossom, beautiful in the clean grass, not beautiful Because common, beautiful because beautiful, Noble because common, because free.
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I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death I am not on his pay-roll.
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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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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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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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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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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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After the feet of beauty fly my own.
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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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