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But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.

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
Never
Men
Mines
Mine
Made

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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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We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.
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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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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
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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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Youth, have no pity leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
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I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.
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When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! I had you and I have you now no more.
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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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I am not afraid of lawyers as I used to be. They are lambs in wolves' clothing.
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O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
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A grave is such a quiet place.
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Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.
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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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She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
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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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And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.
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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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What should I be but just what I am?
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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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