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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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Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!
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A grave is such a quiet place.
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After the feet of beauty fly my own.
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What terrible fear causes Man to address the Void as Thou?
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Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
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I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, Someday you must meet my mother.
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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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I screamed, and--lo!--Infinity Came down and settled over me
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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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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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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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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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Love is not all it is not meat nor drink.
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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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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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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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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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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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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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