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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

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
Nobody
Dies
Children
Kingdom
Kingdoms
Childhood

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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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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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Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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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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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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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
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My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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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.
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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
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Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.
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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
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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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I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
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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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