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Life must go on I forget just why.

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
Grief
Forget
Must
Life

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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.
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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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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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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
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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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I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line.
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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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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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I am not afraid of lawyers as I used to be. They are lambs in wolves' clothing.
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.
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Music my rampart, and my only one.
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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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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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Time can make soft that iron wood.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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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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What should I be but just what I am?
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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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